


Spin

by Lafayette1777



Series: Around and Between [1]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: A little fluffy, Academia, Alternate Universe, Angst, Archaeology, As usual I don't really know what I'm talking about, Asthma, Basically all the lads are involved in higher education, Brown University, Classical Music, Doctorates, Established Relationship, Humbug Hair, India, Indus Valley Civilizations, M/M, Miles is basically in a constant state of panic, Orchestra, Providence, RISD, Rhode Island - Freeform, Stress, Teacher-Student Relationship, by my standards at least, early SIAS hair, late twenties professional panic, our boys are in trouble, scandals, so much stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafayette1777/pseuds/Lafayette1777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Miles Kane, Director of Orchestras at Brown University, is living in domestic (mostly) bliss with doctorate student Alex Turner when things start to go awry.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, as promised!  
> It should be noted that I don't live in Providence (though I have visited many times) and my knowledge of the world of academia is entirely second hand. So if you say any mistakes, let me know! Obviously, this is absolute fiction and has nothing to do with the actual workings of the Brown music department.  
> This fic is about 30,000 words, divided into ten chapters. Space between updates will be spent editing, but hopefully that won't take too long.  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

When Alex arrives, he’s wind-tousled and pink-cheeked, a side effect of the walk down Thayer through the December air. He’s still a little muted from last night, but that doesn’t stop him from following the usual ritual - tossing his scarf onto the spare chair, kissing Miles in greeting, and settling in with his pile of newly checked out books and his laptop to spend the afternoon citing and fact-checking beneath the window. 

Miles, for his part, is usually grading theory papers or studying a new score or reading email in the warm mahogany of the office. Or sometimes just watching the weather outside over Alex’s hunched shoulder. Even though there is something a little tense in the air today, it’s still inherently peaceful. They know each other too well for it to be anything else. 

Eventually, when he sees Alex’s eyes beginning to wander from his well worn copy of the _Upanishads_ , and Miles has to reach out for the lamp on his desk to cut through the evening gloom, he says, “So you remember Nathan? The violinist who soloed at the November concert?”

Alex’s head pops up. “The fit one who did the Rondo Capriccioso?” 

“Yep,” Miles smirks. “He’s definitely in love with me.”

“You have proof?”

“A man can tell.”

“He _is_ quite fit, you know,” Alex’s smile takes a lascivious turn. “You should invite him over. I wouldn’t mind a piece of that. Once he graduates, of course.”

“He’s a violinist. I’m not sure you know what you’re getting into,” Miles laughs. 

“I put up with you, don’t I?”

“Cellists are far superior, I assure you.”

“That’s what they all say,” Alex sighs breathily, smile ethereal, head lolling back and book slipping from his fingers. “You wanna get the fuck out of here and play football, or summat?”

“It’s fucking freezing, Al.”

“We’ll get warm playing,” Alex counters, though he knows he’s already won, since Miles is reaching for the ball in the lower left hand drawer of his desk. 

They head for the field in front of Sharpe Refectory, avoiding the statue of Augustus Caesar and trying not to slip on the ice that’s formed over the walkways. The sky is reflecting the lights of the city off a low cloud cover; the prediction is snow for tomorrow, apparently. Most of the students have already gone home for the holiday, with the exception of the few who are staying on campus, Nathan the violinist among them. 

The moment Miles puts the ball on the ground Alex steals it, running for the north end of the courtyard with reckless abandon and no strategy whatsoever. Miles catches up with him easily, grabs his ass as a distraction and steals it back before the other man can think. Miles shoots in the vague direction of the patch of grass they’ve deemed the goal, turns around to give a victory shout, and is immediately tackled, sending them both sprawling into the cold grass. Miles is gasping for breath from laughter by the time Alex has him pinned to the ground.

“Problem, love?” Alex grins cheekily, pushing a strand of hair out of Miles’s eyes. 

Miles’s breath is white against the night sky, and he watches Alex breathe it in before leaning down to snog him. Miles pours himself into the kiss, fingers entwining themselves in the mane of Alex’s curls to pull him closer, lips soft but not by any means hesitant. When Alex finally pulls away, pupils tiny pinpricks and cheeks a lovely shade of pale pink, Miles finds his mouth moving of its own volition. 

“I’m sorry about last night,” he murmurs against Alex’s lips. “I love you, ya know. I’d follow you anywhere.”

Alex’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but come down again in relief a moment later. He’s lost for a words for a few seconds, lips twisting into different shapes, all abandoned. Until he decides on a simple, awe-filled, “Thank you.”

“Of course, la,” Miles replies, propping himself up on his elbows and hoping he’s not telling lies, inadvertent though they may be. Alex slides off him, but stays pressed close to his right side. He digs out a pack of cigarettes from an inner coat pocket and offers one to Miles. 

“You know,” Miles smirks easily, lighting up. “It’s pretty hot in India. You might have to wear shorts.”

“Never,” Alex chuckles, breathing smoke toward the clouds. “And I might not even get the grant, anyways.”

If Miles can’t hold back the tide of relief that floods him at the thought of Alex being denied the chance to fulfill his fondest professional wish, then he doesn’t show it. 

Alex isn’t looking at him anyway, though, instead spending the next long moments contemplating his cigarette. It’s clear he’s got something to say, and Miles waits patiently while the words gather themselves. 

“Fags smoking fags,” he finally drawls out, a slow smirk creeping up his face. 

Miles throws his head back in snorting laughter. “You’re a poet.”

“Aren’t I?”

Miles leans over to wrap an arm around the other man’s shoulders, press a kiss just beneath his ear. He can feel the chill that runs through Alex at the sensation. “Let’s go home,” Miles mumbles against the skin of his neck. 

“You don’t have anything left to grade?”

“Fuck it.”

Alex smiles. “Alright then.” He gets to his feet, pulling Miles with him and keeping their hands linked for the walk back to the office. Miles can’t help but look at him every few seconds, notice the radiance in mind and body. The tension has seeped out of him since Miles’s declaration and Miles, though feeling less than pure, is still caught in the allure of it. 

At the bus stop, Alex has one hand full of books and the other in Miles’s back pocket, but withdraws it when the bus pulls up. The world has changed but not enough - and Alex is never one to feel like a spectacle, anyways. Regardless, once they sit down Miles leans his head on Alex’s shoulder unabashedly, passing it off as trying to keep warm as the night blurs past outside.

They step into the dark flat and Alex immediately sets about a series of mundane tasks that would be meaningless if he wasn't going out of his way to bend over every few seconds. He's waiting for Miles to come get him, and Miles doesn't hesitate long before acquiescing with a smile quirking the side of his mouth. He pauses, strategically, until he can trap Alex against the counter and kiss him breathless.

m m m

It’s early morning, and Miles has dreamed of northern India. Or, more precisely, what exactly a university orchestra conductor does in the ruins of ancient Indus valley cities. 

The tea turns sour in his mouth. He pours the half full mug down the sink, and looks out the kitchen window down onto Sheldon street, three floors below him. Snow is falling, and he’s thankful rehearsal isn’t until the afternoon today, when the day will have gathered at least some measurable heat. 

Alex is still asleep. Once, he was more of an early riser, but with the time fast approaching where he’ll have to defend his dissertation he’s been spending as much time in bed as possible in an attempt to avoid reality. And when he is awake, he’s looking through archives or books or the internet, checking and rechecking, or meeting with his advisor for last minute rewrites, or neglecting his english TA responsibilities. Or pacing around the flat in general terror.

Eventually, he stumbles into the kitchen, curls mussed and eyes half open, wearing only a t-shirt with a ridiculously stretched collar and shorts. 

“You’re an angel,” Miles blurts. 

“Piss off,” Alex rasps, and grins. He trips forward, into Miles’s arms, and kisses him warmly in good morning. He smells of stale sweat and sex and sleep, and of something inexplicably Alex, something that Miles breathes in vehemently when he presses his face into Alex’s shoulder. 

Four years, and he’s still stupidly enamored. 

They sway slightly in the embrace. Miles can tell by the set of Alex’s shoulders that he’s worrying about the day ahead of him - meeting with Homme always does this. He’ll spend the whole day anxious and it’s never quite as awful as he expects - the archaeology professor may be terrifying, but he’s got an obvious soft spot for Alex and his work. Still, nothing Miles says can convince Alex that his advisor doesn’t hate him, so he resorts simply to holding him tighter until some of the stress is released from his being. 

“Get dressed, la,” Miles eventually murmurs against his ear. “I’ve got a student coming in an hour.”

“Get naked, you said?”

“Ha.” Miles rolls his eyes. 

Alex slinks off to shower and dress while Miles begins to tidy obsessively, rather than think. He washes the mugs under scaldingly hot water and wipes every flat surface twice. It’s good Alex can’t see him now; the man knows his tells too well and would be able to determine immediately that something isn’t right, and that’s a conversation Miles is none too keen on having now. Or anytime, really. 

He’s aware, rather sickeningly, that evasion is a strategy that can only last so long. India invades his peripheral vision far too often.

Alex appears again, dressed in a wrinkled white button-down and jeans, just as the doorbell rings. Suki has lugged her cello up three flights of cold stairs and he lets her into the warmth of the flat quickly before her fingers are too cold to play. 

Alex waves to her shyly where he’s getting ready to meet his advisor, shoving a handful of papers and a few books into his bag and throwing on a coat. Suki unpacks while Miles meets Alex at the door, where he’s checking his pockets for his wallet in a state that’s definitely a little frazzled. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Miles reassures.

“He hates me,” Alex replies sullenly, but offers a smile when Miles kisses him goodbye. “Alexa’s thing tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Miles confirms, and then Alex is out the door. 

Heading back to the living room, Miles gives Suki a proper greeting and uses her A to tune his cello. She’s a sophomore in the Brown orchestra and is one of the few he finds time to offer private lessons to, mostly because he both admires and is fascinated by how drastically her work ethic and level of talent don’t match up. They go through a few scales and then the Boccherini the orchestra will be playing in the new year, topping it off with a solo Bach courante. After she leaves, Miles doesn’t put his cello away - reminded that to play by himself, without the accompaniment of prying eyes, is something to be savored. He runs through a few old audition solos with his eyes closed and his ears open.

When it’s time to head over to campus again, he heads for the bedroom, wherein he’d carelessly flung his coat the night before. On his pillow he finds one of Alex’s notes, left around the apartment every now and again when he’s feeling poetic, for Miles to find and, invariably, keep. 

On the torn edge of the back cover of a magazine, Alex has scrawled:

_I live for you like rosin lives for a bow._

Miles rolls his eyes with a grin, tucking the slip of paper into his breast pocket. “Soppy idiot.” Warmth radiates from the note even after he’s stepped into the cold of the day.

The chamber group is meeting in Sayles for their rehearsal, and though they usually function without Miles, Nathan’s invited him for a second opinion. So he’s humoring the boy - in part because the ego boost of Nathan’s blush the second he enters the room is entertaining. 

They’re playing through something from _Requiem for a Dream_ that Nathan has arranged, and he gives them a few things to think about before making his excuses to get back to his office. Because of the fact it’s the winter holiday and most of the orchestra has gone home, there’s no big rehearsal tonight, so all he really wants to do is sort through the mountain of paperwork he’s been ignoring all semester and wait for Alex to come in with cold fingers and warm eyes. 

Naturally, it doesn’t work out quite so seamlessly. 

After an hour or so of Miles intermittently doing work and intermittently staring at the snow falling outside, Nathan knocks on the door frame and enters the realm of wood panelling and piles of music and sepia desk lamp light. Miles tries not to look invaded upon - he _is_ a teacher, after all, and such things require tolerance. 

It’s hard to see, but the way Nathan’s eyes drift to the floor suggests a blush. He’s got his violin in the hand resting at his side.

“Need sommat?” Miles asks, voice light. 

“Yeah, I was hoping I could play something for you. Just to hear your thoughts, sir.”

“Sure,” Miles replies. “For an audition?”

“Uh...yep.”

It’s an excerpt of the Mendelssohn concerto, and he plays it from memory, with beautiful dynamic contrast and elegant phrasing and at a tempo that enunciates each romantic note to slipping into the next. Obviously, he’s not here because he thinks it needs work. He’s here because he wants Miles to be impressed. And, truthfully, Miles is, even if he is concerned by Nathan’s motives for playing it for him. 

“Well done,” Miles comments, with a slightly reserved smile. “I’m sure it’ll impress any future judge.”

“Mmmm...that’s the goal, I suppose,” he smiles, clearly pleased with himself. He says his goodbyes and then slips from the room, but before he makes it out he collides with Alex, who’s returned from his meeting with a fistful of rewrites. 

“Excuse me,” Alex smiles facetiously while the boy murmurs an apology for the white line of rosin now adorning Alex’s black collar. The violinist disappears in record time. Alex raises an amused, questioning eyebrow at Miles until Nathan’s out of earshot.

“Professing his love for you, I take it?” Alex snickers. 

“Not in as many words,” Miles sighs, with a weary smile. “Poor sod’s in deep, I’m afraid.”

“He _is_ lovely, though,” Alex says, looking wistfully in the direction Nathan has escaped.

“I’m starting to think we shouldn’t encourage him, even after he’s graduated.” Miles turns his eyes back to the score in front of him. “Don’t want to break his heart.”

“If you say so,” Alex relents, plopping into his usual chair. 

“How’d it go with Homme, then?”

“He wants me to rewrite the last three paragraphs,” Alex groans. “I think I’m just going to kill meself and get it over with.”

“Please don’t,” Miles chuckles. “Only another month of this, anyway.”

“Don’t remind me.” Alex deflates further into the leather beneath him. “Can we just go to Alexa’s thing so I can get pissed and forget about all this?”

“Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Alex stands, ruffling his hair until reaches a state of perfect artful disheveledness, then shrugs into his layers again. With the sun dipping below the horizon, the outside is looking far less wondrous. Miles sighs into a well-fitted wool coat and leather gloves, smiling at the intent gaze Alex aims at his slender fingers. 

“Why’s it so fucking cold as fuck?” Miles mutters, once they’re wading through snow.

“Eloquently put,” laughs Alex, then chirps out the afterthought, “I suppose this won’t be a problem in India.”

“I suppose not,” Miles replies, after a beat, sure that Alex has heard his hesitation. But neither makes any further comment.

Alexa’s watercolors have been hung in a brilliantly white gallery a few blocks down from RISD. The party’s already under way by the time they blow in, and Alex immediately sets in to downing gin and tonics until he can sustain small talk with strangers. Miles follows suit, though with less dedication. Alexa greets him with a hug and kiss, beaming at the size of the crowd and he makes polite conversation about the works on the walls while trying to hide his utter ignorance of all that is visual art. 

On the other side of the room he sees Alex greet Matt and Breana, a couple of photo adjuncts also from RISD, and when Jamie and Katie Cook wander over to the group Miles takes his cue to leave Alexa to a serious looking goateed bloke asking about brush strokes. 

“Hey, Miles,” Matt greets him enthusiastically, and each of them in turn hug him hello. 

“Where’s Mal?” asks Miles. “The northern squad is nothing without him.”

“Sick kid,” Jamie informs. “Still on for Sunday, though, I believe.”

The room, as it fills, is getting increasingly pompous, and Miles, as he downs a few more drinks, is absorbing it. He ends up getting into an in depth argument with a stranger over the relative merits of Takashi Murakami, and in his buzzed state he can’t help but be a little proud of his ability to bullshit answers so convincingly. 

Gradually, though, he gravitates back towards the art on the walls, and finds himself taken with what appears to be a portrait of a modern day Jesus in crocs and cargo pants, surrounded by suburban sprawl. To his slightly inebriated gaze the colors seem especially vibrant, the body language in the messiah’s stance especially telling. After a few minutes of observation he perceives Alexa by his side. 

“I based the hair off Alex’s,” she remarks. 

“Ah, I thought there was something familiar about it,” Miles chuckles, squinting at the brown locks. “It’s sort of wonderful, you know. The whole thing.”

“Believe it or not, that’s what I was going for,” she says, then adds with a wink, “But you just like it because it reminds of you Alex.”

“That’s not the _only_ reason,” he defends with a laugh. “Jesus and Alex don’t really mesh together in my head, anyways. I like the surreality of it.”

“Surreality of what?” Alex appears, slipping an arm around Miles’s waist and resting his chin on the Scouser’s shoulder. 

Miles motions toward the painting and answers casually, “Alexa’s a genius.”

“Obviously,” Alex replies, smirking at Alexa’s attempt at a dismissal. 

“We better be getting home,” Miles tells Alexa, feeling Alex’s hot, gin-scented breath at his ear. 

“Thanks for coming, darling,” she says, before being sucked into another conversation. 

Alex’s hand drops into his as they return to the cold, no longer as sharp behind the barrier of alcohol. Enveloped, finally, in the warmth of home, Miles makes a concerted effort to separate Alex from India and India from his mind entirely. 

He’s unsuccessful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! Enjoy <3

Alex and Hearst, standing defiantly in knee deep snow, are each holding a neon green, soapy wand and blowing bubbles up toward the spotless blue of the sky. In between breaths they seem to be having some sort of deeply serious conversation - Miles, from this distance, thinks it might be about fire trucks. 

Miles, along with the adult population, has taken up residence on the back porch, soaking in as much vitamin D as he can before winter closes in for good. Wearing full layers and with a blanket over his legs, the unexpected sun almost makes the day bearable. Miles, intermittently, has to simply lean back with his eyes closed in the most transparent of attempts to physically absorb the light. Matt is beside him; opposite him are Jamie and Nick and their significant others, postdocs at Brown that are cohabitating in this house on Lauriston until they can get a permanent position. Miles is vaguely aware that the group, eventually, will split - that they’ll all hit thirty and their serendipitous little group of English immigrants will have to venture into full adulthood. 

Then he thinks about India, about the idea of leaving his dream job for two years with no guarantee of ever getting it back, and decides to stare into the sun until it hurts. 

“So when are you two gonna get married?” Matt motions vaguely toward Alex, bounding through the snow. “Now that it’s legal and all.”

“I’ll probably get it together after all this dissertation business is done with.” Miles shrugs, sucking half-heartedly on a cigarette. 

“I were just teasing, mate,” Matt laughs. “Didn’t think you actually had plans.”

“I don’t have _plans_ , per se,” Miles grins out. “And there’s no rush. He knows he’s mine.”

Alex and Hearst eventually fight their way back through the snow, looking rather cold and unhappy, the bubbles having lost their allure. Hearst climbs into his mother’s lap and Alex wedges himself in beside Miles in the folding canvas chair. Immediately, it feels like it’s twenty degrees warmer. Alex, natural furnace that he is, has Miles stripping the blanket off his legs within minutes and curling into Alex instead. 

He’s still thinking about Matt’s question, though, and it is a little remarkable how they’ve ended up. At first, he’d thought the attraction was simply a side effect of being depraved of the taste of home - he hadn’t met another half decent Englishmen since coming to Rhode Island, much less a Northerner, and it seemed inevitable that he would spend some time in the arms of the motherland. But eventually, he noticed it growing into something else, that he was drawn to Alex not just because he was a familiar face in a strange land. By the time Miles had caught on, Alex was already there. And now, suddenly, it’s been four years. In all honesty it really is a bit surreal - just like Jesus in Crocs. 

“So, do you have a date for your defense yet, Alex?” Nick asks, one eye on where Hearst’s eyelids are fluttering closed against Kelly’s collarbone.

“Day before me birthday, actually.” Alex grimaces.

“That’s perfect. We can get you proper drunk afterwards without having to worry about the consequences,” Jamie laughs. 

“Dear god, I’m gonna need it, when all this is over,” Alex sighs, head lolling back onto Miles’s shoulder. 

“And when do you hear about the Mohenjo Daro grant, then?” Nick inquires. 

“Coupla weeks after, I believe.”

Matt snorts. “Our boy’s finally hitting it big. Moving out and everything, and just when we were all getting used to America.”

“There’s no guarantee that I’ll get it,” Alex warns. “Don’t get all chuffed yet.”

“But Homme said you’re the best candidate, yeah?” Miles butts in, his silence becoming conspicuous. 

“Josh is not a reliable source.” Alex exhales with a tired smile. 

“Of course not.” Miles pulls him closer, breathes deep into the mane of curls. He finds himself subconsciously trying to memorize every aspect of a scene like this - Alex soft and close, surrounded by friends - and doesn’t dwell on the fact that this too shall pass. 

m m m

Their apartment on Sheldon street is not large, not even by European standards, and its status as the third floor of a triple decker means that it’s difficult to heat and to cool and just to get to in general. The grand total of four rooms (two bedrooms, a bath, and conjoined living room and kitchen) are small but well windowed. The appliances are artifacts and the whole house warps with every change in the weather. Theoretically, Miles’s salary as director of orchestras at Brown should easily allow them to upgrade, but they’ve grown attached to the cramped space. And there’s always been a gray area as to what exactly they’d do with more room, with just the two of them, a cello, and some weathered books. 

At the moment, Alex is sitting at the breakfast table, laptop open and head in his hands. Every few minutes he gets up to pace, swear and/or smoke. Miles, sprawled on the couch, looks up from his attempt to decide next semester’s chair assignments to watch the way Alex’s biceps flex beneath one of Miles’s shirts when he runs his hands through his hair in frustration. 

“Fuck it. I don’t care. I’m printing it,” Alex finally moans, slamming back down in front of the laptop.

“Why not email it to him first?” Miles asks.

“Josh doesn’t read email,” Alex drones out, eyes still glued to the screen. “And he likes a physical copy that he can mark up. Makes him feel powerful, I think.”

Instead of hitting print, though, he slumps backwards into his chair and groans at the ceiling. “Oh god, it’s shit.”

“No, it’s not,” counters Miles calmly. 

“I can’t do this. Why’d I even want a doctorate, anyways?” Alex is pacing again, shivering against the ineffectual space heater’s output. “What’s the fucking point?”

Miles puts down the moleskin he’s scribbling in and fixes Alex with a lopsided, sympathetic grin. “Wanna procrastinate and watch _True Detective_ instead?”

Alex stops moving. “God, yes.” He takes two steps and collapses into Miles and the couch. 

Miles eventually nods off with his head on Alex’s thigh, to the sound of Alex rereading the _Bhagavad Gita_ to comfort his nerves. When he wakes again, Alex’s thigh has been replaced by a bird patterned throw pillow and Alex is back to vigorously typing, a kind of determined animosity clouding his features. Miles looks back at his moleskin full of orchestra notes and makes the arbitrary decision, while still mostly enveloped by couch cushion, to recommend that the quartet play _Death and the Maiden_ now and save _American Quartet No.12_ for spring. He sighs, looking out the kitchen window to find the sky darkened - with the holidays suspending evening rehearsals, he’s spending his days trapped in leisure. He feels like James Bond, oppressed by the soft life. The thought of time out of a job, in India or otherwise, has him close to panic. 

He alleviates the sudden tightening of his chest by heading toward the back bedroom and the comforting familiarity of the cello resting there. By the time he’s satisfied and the tips of his fingers are dented, it’s near midnight, and he wanders to the bedroom to see if Alex has collapsed yet. He finds the room empty, save a slip of paper on Miles’s pillow. It’s a sticky note marred by Alex’s slanting scrawl. 

_I see a sky in your eyes that is better than the one above me._

Miles smirks a little bit at the words, but feels heat rush to his face all the same. It seems that the throes of procrastination have made Alex all the more lyrical. He picks up the note like it’s a wilting flower, something ethereal and breakable, and approaches where Alex is still hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table. 

“It might’ve been a bit more profound if my eyes weren’t the color of topsoil,” Miles chuckles at the back of Alex’s now significantly mussed hair. 

Alex turns his head to meet his eyes, propping his cheek on one palm. “Or maybe,” he posits, the the hint of a smile curling the side of his mouth at his own cleverness, “that makes it even more romantic.”

Miles laughs, and Alex turns back to the glowing screen, his face illuminated in the dark room. 

“Do you like it, though?” Alex murmurs, rubbing at tired eyes. 

“Of course,” Miles replies softly, advancing toward him and tangling his fingers in the curls at the base of Alex’s neck. He leans down and presses his nose into the top of the other man’s head to inhale in adoration. “Come to bed,” he mumbles into Alex’s messy part. 

It takes a while to break Alex’s eyes from the hold of the neatly typed rows and the opalescence of the screen, but eventually he acquiesces and gives into Miles’s touch. 

m m m

In the morning, Miles gets up early with the intention of making an ophthalmology appointment he’s been putting off, but instead is inhibited by the warmth of the duvets and the picture of Alex ensnared in sleep. When he finally does slip from bed, removing his arm from where the other man has his head resting on it, he stands freezing in the cold flat until he can get the space heaters on, dragging one along behind him as he searches for his mobile. Alex drags himself out of bed while Miles is still on the phone, only to faceplant into the settee and wrap himself in a blanket again. Miles laughs silently at him as the woman on the other end of the phone secures him an appointment for the coming Monday. 

He heads to the office by noon, leaving Alex to agonize in peace. He checks to see all the practice rooms are empty, and carefully avoids Nathan in the one at the farthest end of the hallway. It turns out to be inevitable, though, as when he goes for his afternoon cup of coffee Nathan seems to sense his movement, appearing in the corridor at precisely the wrong moment. Miles tries not to look visibly put off, and thinks back to a few words of Alex’s from long ago - “You’re too charming for your own good, Mi.”

Nathan has already seen him, obviously, so he can’t slip off unnoticed. He gives a weak smile, nods in greeting, and hopes to leave it at that. He has no such luck. 

“Morning, professor.” Nathan, making like the coffee machine is the object of his attention, though his ears flush with every dart of his eyes towards Miles. 

“Afternoon, actually,” Miles replies, without much conviction. 

“Oh?” Nathan looks down at his phone to confirm this. “Must’ve gotten absorbed. I was going through the Saint-Saens again, just for fun.”

“A worthy piece.” Miles’s eyes go to his wrist before he remembers he’s forgotten his watch, but he uses it as an excuse anyway. “I better be off. See you later, Nathan.”

“Oh, wait! I meant to ask you, can I come by tomorrow morning? I’m trying to arrange another piece for the quartet but it’s been proving tricky. I just need some advice, sir,” he spills out. His blonde crew cut and pale complexion does nothing to hide the spread of red up from his cheeks. His propensity for such a potent blush does remind Miles a bit of Alex, but the comparison stops there. Alex has never in his life worn cargo shorts, much less in winter. Miles had used to find Nathan’s inability to wear real pants endearing, but now that his advances have gone from amusing to mildly annoying, Miles is considerably less than captivated. 

“Eh, tomorrow morning I actually have an eye appointment,” Miles declares, glad to find the truth to be useful for once. 

“Afternoon, then?”

Miles, riding the high from his truth, can’t think of a good lie and sighs out, “Alright.” Before the boy is out of sight, though, he can’t stop himself from asking, “Nathan, why in god’s name are you wearing shorts in this weather?”

Nathan smiles at the overture. “I’m a southern boy, sir. Unused to pants.”

“The American south is a strange place.” Miles shakes his head, and Nathan laughs. 

He hears Alex’s voice inside his head. _Too charming_. Don’t let the boy get any more enamored than he already is, Miles thinks with a scowl. He slumps back to his office to sulk in the gloom of the early afternoon, until Alex calls at five to inform him they’re having dinner in town.

“Are we?” Miles banters, the beginning of a smile on his lips. 

“Apparently. Some ridiculously romantic twat is inviting you out. It’d be rude to say no,” Alex laughs. 

“Guess I’ve got no choice, then.”

“Guess you don’t.”

“Where are we eating?” Miles rolls his swivel chair toward his scarf, half buried under music on his desk. 

“Some place on Hope. Haven’t decided yet. I’ll text you when I figure it out.”

“Alright, then. Is this all some very advanced form of procrastination, though?” Miles asks, a smirk leaking into his voice, as he reaches out to turn on a lamp against the rapid darkening of the day outside. 

“Would it be less romantic if it was?”

“Nah, I’ll take it. As long as you’re going all the way,” Miles replies smoothly, wiggling his eyebrows even though Alex can’t see him.

“Goddamn right you’ll take it,” Alex growls in response. 

Miles feels the shiver go down his spine and hopes it makes its way into his voice when he says, “I think I like you when you’re shirking your responsibilities.”

Alex laughs, then, and tells him he’ll call back when he’s got the evening planned.

m m m

Alex, standing stalk still in the midst of hardening snow as he’s buffeted by a gelid wind, gives no indication that he feels at all uncomfortable. Meanwhile, Miles approaches him with his teeth gritted, his hands deep in his pockets, and his lips chapped just from the short walk. Alex smiles when he sees him and conveys as much warmth as he can when he kisses Miles hello. 

“Good to see you made it off the settee today.” Miles sneers, pecking him once more for good measure. 

“Barely,” replies Alex. “Organized all me records and did all the laundry and fixed the bedside table just to avoid writing the last paragraph. You should be proud.”

“When’s the last time you showered, though?” Miles asks lightly, pulling at one of Alex’s curls. 

“Piss off.” He smirks. “Showering is for the weak.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Miles chuckles fondly. “Let’s just get inside before I go hypothermic, yeah?”

“Weak,” Alex mutters, and Miles cuffs him softly over the ear in response. 

Inside the restaurant, Miles quickly finds himself itching for a smoke, but is in no way willing to venture back outside, still thoroughly chilled from his previous stint. Even Alex’s massive, warm hand over his doesn’t have him back to room temperature yet. He’s contemplating the wine list when he feels Alex’s eyes lock on to him intently, for longer than just the usual fleeting glances they naturally throw each other every few seconds. Miles raises an eyebrow at him, no words necessary.

“Erm…” Alex retracts his hand from Miles’s, his eyes focusing in on some nondescript corner of the white table cloth. 

Miles doesn’t push, but lets Alex’s thoughts collect on their own. “I realized…” he starts out hesitantly, “that I never proper apologized for the whole Mohenjo Daro thing. I should’ve had more of a conversation with you first before I applied.”

For a moment, Miles isn’t sure how to respond. It’s true, he’d been angry to begin with when he’d found out Alex had made the decision about the grant almost entirely without him, mentioning it briefly one week and coming back the next week with the announcement he’d turned in all the paperwork for his application. Miles had been bent over his cello, replacing each of the worn strings and re-tuning, when Alex had made his declaration, breathless with excitement and oblivious to Miles’s growing acrimony. They’d fought; Miles had asked him how he intended Miles to just give up on his career for two years, give up the position he’d fought so hard for. Alex had hypocritically accused him of being selfish and sore over the first real possibility of success Alex has ever had in his field. _What did you expect?_ Alex had spat, eyes hurt. _You knew we’d have to go eventually. That’s the whole goal of my studies - to get over there and dig. It’s not all about you._

Miles had noticed the way he still said ‘we.’ And, truthfully, he really could have predicted this. But the surprise had come in the length of time the grant dictated - Alex had been to southern Pakistan a couple times on his own, a few weeks at a time for research purposes, and they’d spent the summer in Punjab together one year, but two entire years is something else completely. No hope of holding on to his job at Brown, and with no clear path as to what opportunities he’d have on the other side of the world. 

Since the fight, though, Miles’s anger has diminished almost wholly into worry. The thought of losing Alex entirely, or having to try to make an ridiculously long distance relationship work, has had him scowling into cups of coffee and at blank walls for some time now. 

“S’okay,” he mutters into a bite of complimentary bread. He doesn’t want to fight over it again, and isn’t sure what else he can say to prevent it.

“You were right. I were being selfish,” Alex persists. “I got carried away and didn’t think about what this meant for you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past.” Miles shrugs, hoping he looks more insouciant than he feels. 

“It’s not really, though, is it?” he counters, sipping at the glass of water to his right. “In all honesty, I’ve begun to hope I won’t get the grant at all. It’s not worth it if it’s not good for you. Or if it means losing you.”

“Don’t say that,” Miles replies quickly. 

“No, really.”

Their waiter arrives before Miles can formulate a comeback, or get any confirmation if Alex is really being sincere. He has a hard time believing that Alex can truly let an opportunity like this go, and this hypothesis is supported by that fact he hasn’t actually pledged to turn down the grant if he gets it. Alex, it seems, is just hoping he won’t have to make the decision at all. 

And Miles, though he knows it’s sinful, is hoping for the same.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super jet lagged, slightly hungover, and overall only semi-conscious. But sorry for the long wait on this one, I couldn't hold off any longer now that I'm back in front of a real computer. Enjoy!

“Whoa, cooking? You’ve really gone off the deep end, darling.”

Alex is bent over, looking intently into the darkness of the oven. His hands are coated with the same thin layer of flour that’s made it into his hair as well. 

“I hate everything,” says Alex glumly. “Including this fucking cake.”

“Even me?”

“With the exception of you, obviously.”

Miles has spent the last half hour searching the flat for the case that the glasses on his nightstand came in, with no luck. Inexplicably, he finds it in the cabinet above the oven that Alex is glaring at. 

“What kind of cake is it?” Miles asks, running his fingers down Alex’s inclined spine. 

“Who fucking knows,” is the grumbled response. 

“How domestic,” smirks Miles. “Shall I expect a roast on the table by the time I get home?”

“Fuck off,” Alex retorts, cracking a grim smile. “What do you have on today, anyways?”

“Eye appointment and then I have to go into work to meet Nathan,” Miles replies, reaching for his briefcase to slip the glasses case into. 

“Right this minute?”

“I dunno...coupla minutes.” Miles glances indifferently at his watch, and in the brief moment that his eyes divert from where Alex has crouched there’s a flash of movement. And then there are lips against his and all thought is eradicated from Miles’s mind. 

He’s easily consumed by the kiss, only vaguely aware of his own hands coming up to tangle in Alex’s hair. Alex’s fingers dig into his hips, then come up and untuck Miles’s shirt to get at the skin beneath. Miles is far past any semblance of reason when Alex murmurs a breathy _Miles_ against his mouth, serving to remind the Scouser of his own name. It’s only when he feels warm hands fumbling with his belt buckle that he wakes up. 

“I really do have to go, la,” he murmurs against Alex’s neck, punctuating it with a kiss in that spot just beneath his chin that has him sighing warmly against Miles’s ear. 

“Pity,” Alex mumbles, almost incoherent. 

“I _definitely_ like you when you’re shirking your responsibilities,” Miles laughs breathlessly, tucking his shirt back in and trying, ineffectually, to forcefully lower his own body temperature. “You gonna be here when I get back?”

“I was gonna go to the Rock,” he replies, and then adds with a wink, “but I may be able to amend me schedule.”

Miles kisses him once more, then begins to collect his things again. It’s only once he’s out in the cold, heading for the bus stop, that the blush finally fades from his cheeks. 

m m m

The sun is bright, and it reflects off the fresh snow with a ferocity that gives Miles a headache the moment he steps out of the ophthalmologist’s office, his pupils fully dilated. He’s forgotten his sunglasses and forgotten to grab a temp pair from the nurse and by the time he’s on the bus he’s forgotten to give a fuck, too, and resigns himself to the pain behind his eyes and the inability to see clearly past his own arm span. 

There’s nothing he wants more to get off at the stop for home, but the dutiful young professor inside him won’t blow off Nathan, even if it’s for the good of both of them. On campus, he puts one gloved hand above his brow to block out the sun and speedwalks for his office. 

Nathan has yet to arrive, so he takes his few moments of solitude and runs with them, curling up in Alex’s chair for a power nap, keeping the lights off and his coat on. He’s not sure for how long he nods off - but some time later he’s jolted awake by the overhead light springing into existence to punish him for his sins. He tries not to groan and settles for a wince in Nathan’s general direction. 

“Afternoon, professor,” Nathan chirps.

“Afternoon,” Miles mutters, slipping out of the chair and replacing the overhead for the desk lamp without comment. 

“Are you alright, sir?” Nathan is wearing pants today, rather than shorts. Miles wonders idly if his words from a few days ago have changed the boy’s habits, then sincerely hopes they haven’t. In part, simply because he _does_ find it somewhere between endearing and amusing that Nathan functions entirely in summer attire. 

“Just a headache,” Miles dismisses. “Alright, what’ve you got for me?”

Nathan digs in his pockets for a moment before producing a few folded sheets of staff paper. Miles can’t fathom why he’s decided to write out each quartet part by hand - perhaps it seemed more traditionally artistic. He holds the first page out until it comes into focus, finally registering the alto clef on the left hand side of the sheet and laying it down beside the violin and the cello parts on his desk. It’s an arrangement of one of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, and he can’t see any glaring mistakes through his squinting eyes. 

“Looks fine to me,” he says with a shrug. “You’ll just have to play through it and see if it’s got all the essential bits. I don’t recall exactly what this one sounds like with a full orchestra, but I assume you’ve listened to it?”

“Yeah, of course,” Nathan smiles. “It’s very, er, romantic.”

“Well, it is Brahms,” Miles deadpans, lifting his eyes from the papers in front of him to find that Nathan has moved closer, their shoulders nearly touching. “Is that all, then?”

Nathan, though, has pulled out his phone and is scrolling through iTunes to find the piece. “Here it is,” he murmurs, and lets it play. He’s right; it does conjure a rather romantic image, the notes of the main theme bleeding into each other with each legato tone. Yet it still maintains that Brahms-esque edge with each concise phrase. Miles has to admit, it’s a good choice for an adaptation, based on beauty alone. 

“Lovely,” he can’t help but remark. 

“Yeah,” Nathan agrees, and there’s something in his voice that has Miles looking up from the carpet in some mix of suspicion and curiosity. 

And, as it happens, that’s his first mistake. 

In all honesty, he doesn’t see it coming. And not just because his eyes won’t focus. There’s nothing about Nathan that indicates he would be so brash, and yet here he is, smashing his lips against Miles’s, a hand coming up to hold his jaw. He’s a bit taller than Miles - a relatively easy feat - and his height combined with the unexpectedness of the action altogether has Miles immediately overwhelmed. 

A moment later, he manages to step back out of Nathan’s grip, stumbling gracelessly and sucking in a ragged breath. “No,” he croaks, steadying himself against the desk to his right. “That’s not...you can’t…”

He looks up from his own hands and sees Nathan’s expression, a hodgepodge of exhilaration and hurt and something, perhaps, like anger. “But -”

Miles holds up one hand to silence him. “No. I don’t think you understand. This isn’t...this isn’t alright. You’re not--”

“I won’t tell anyone. And I’m an adult, anyways, you won’t get in trouble,” Nathan replies vehemently, and Miles just shakes his head. 

“Regardless, you’re my student and it’s unethical. And, more importantly, I’m not interested.” His voice comes out firmer than he expects, though still a little on the raspy side. He looks around for his bag, where the inhaler waits for him the outside pocket, and then towards the door. Escape sounds like the best course of action right now; he’s not sure he can manage this conversation. He’s caught between irritation and pity and panic - panic, regarding the consequences of this moment, is what’s threatening to overtake him most immediately. 

“Oh,” Nathan breathes, looking taken aback. “But you...you lead -”

“No, I didn’t,” Miles winces at his own lack of eloquence. His charm is failing him. Surely, there’s a kinder way to do this, but he can’t see and he can’t breathe and he’s embarrassingly caught off guard by the situation as a whole. “Look, I’ve got to get home.”

All his halfway functioning mind can do is force him out of the room as fast possible, before conditions deteriorate even further. He flails, internally and externally, at his own lack of tact and general inability to manage. He grabs his bag in one swift motion and pushes past Nathan, neglecting to lock the door to his office and leaving his scarf over the back of his desk chair. He doesn’t feel the cold, though, not until he’s hunched over on the bus stop bench, sucking on his inhaler and suffering under the light of the sun even with his eyes narrowed to slits.

At home, he trudges up the three flights of stairs and realizes he’s forgotten his keys, too, once he’s standing in front of the chipped door. He can hear Alex’s heavy footsteps inside, though, and it’s unlocked anyways. He tumbles in, drops his bag and his coat, and finds Alex with his back turned, dampening the plants along the sill of the far window with a porcelain pitcher. Judging by the dressing gown, he’s just out of the shower, and when Miles squints he can see that Alex’s hair is still plastered to his head with water. 

Alex turns at the sound of his arrival, smiling that low key smile of his. “Hey, so I was thinking--” He cuts off abruptly when he sees the state Miles is in. “Holy shit, what happened to you?”

Miles shakes his head. “Everything’s fucked,” he rasps, pulling at his gloves ineffectually with hands that are still a little shaky from his bout with hypoxia. Mostly, he can keep his asthma under control, which makes it all the more terrifying when he loses his grip. 

Alex approaches quickly, pulling the gloves off for him before he can object. A stray hair falls from Alex’s forehead and drips water onto the now exposed skin of Miles’s hands. Alex holds his tongue until he has Miles out of his winter clothes and sitting on the settee, then waits longer until Miles’s breathing evens out further. 

“So, what’s going on, then?” Alex asks softly, eyes matching the calm of his voice. He must know that whatever has shaken Miles so badly is big, but he’s not letting his worry infect the room further, for which Miles is enormously grateful. 

“Will you close the blinds?” Miles asks, squinting against the light. Rather pitifully, he’s aware. 

“Sure.”

“They gave me a new prescription,” Miles says, shaking the hunch out of his shoulders now that he’s not oppressed by the light.

“I do hope that’s not what’s gotten you this upset,” Alex quips, letting himself smirk a bit as he finishes with the blinds. 

The smirk has vanished by the time Miles retells the full events of the afternoon. 

“That’s certainly...unanticipated,” Alex remarks, puzzlement breaking through the facade of calm. “How did he react when you told him it wasn’t going to happen?”

“I dunno, really. I ran for it.” Miles drops his head into his hands tiredly. “Which probably puts him in a position of power, doesn’t it?”

“‘Fraid so,” Alex affirms, scowling pensively. “Do you think he’ll do it, though? Claim that you tried to force yourself on him, or something of the like?”

“I’ve no idea,” he sighs. “I didn’t think he’d have the balls to try anything in the first place, and yet here we are.”

“Christ,” mutters Alex, migrating toward the window, where the sky is already fading. “Are you good? Can I smoke?”

“Yeah, get me one too.”

Alex fixes him with the usual look of mild displeasure, but has long ago given up on verbally chastising him for smoking with asthma. Miles is perfectly aware of the risk and perfectly set in his ways. Still, he coughs into his first drag and Alex can’t stop himself from placing the concerned, protective hand on the small of Miles’s back. They stay like that for a while, perched on the window sill, letting the smoke drift into the cold air. Though Alex’s hair is still wet, Miles is the one shivering, as per usual. Three stories beneath them, a stereotypical muddy Subaru sloshes through the wet snow, and Alex puts out his cigarette in the ashtray they’ve kept carefully hidden from the landlady. He leans forward and gathers Miles into him, giving warmth and comfort without asking anything in return. Miles goes limp, pressing his face into the cold damp at the top of Alex’s head. 

m m m

Alex, as expected, is sleeping with his limbs splayed and half the covers thrown off, and Miles, as expected, is curled up neatly at his side, trying to leech warmth from the other man’s apparently abundant reserves. Even under the duvet and his grandfather’s military grade wool blanket he still has his head burrowed under Alex’s left armpit and his cold feet between Alex’s thighs. This is their usual arrangement, but tonight Miles is still awake, eyes wide and brain whirring. 

The darkness of his thoughts are fueled by the darkness of the night. He’s dissecting his memories of his interactions with Nathan, from earlier today and even before, searching for some clue as to what the boy’s likely to do. Undeniably, Miles has rejected him rather maladroitly, but the question remains whether Nathan is the sort to slink away embarrassed, or fight back with what higher ground he has. Miles is, unhappily, at the mercy of his whim. 

He pushes these thoughts from his mind, desperate for sleep and any release it’ll bring. He contemplates the private lesson he has tomorrow; a freshman violist with an interesting, jagged method of arm vibrato. This, though, doesn’t lull him into unconsciousness, so he switches to rifling through what little he knows about early Indian history in the hope it’ll bore him into a doze. 

In the morning, he awakes to the sound of Alex, shockingly, already up and about in the front rooms. Miles feels as exhausted as he was when he crawled into bed last night, but gathers the strength to leave the warm cocoon of blankets and find the note perched on top of his glasses on the bedside table. 

_I am unwittingly drawn in to you even when out of myself._

Miles smirks despite the heaviness of his eyelids, tucks the square of paper towel the note is written on in with all the others in the box in the closet. He’s kept every note Alex has ever written him, of course, to remind himself that they actually exist outside his own imagination, that waking up to words like that really is his reality. 

Alex is making beans on toast in the kitchen, fully dressed. There’s even evidence that he’s already left the flat and come back - his coat is on top of Miles’s on the hook. 

Miles’s eyes dart to the clock. It’s past noon. 

“What’ve you been up to?” he asks.

Alex turns away from the counter under the window and says with a dubious smile, “Christmas shopping.”

“Oh, right...I suppose that’s nearly here, innit?”

“Three days,” Alex smirks. “Forget, did ya?”

“Maybe.”

He hasn’t forgotten, of course. Sent a gift to his mother a month ago, and picked up Alex’s present last week: a desk plaque engraved with _Dr. Alex Turner, PhD,_ and a few books that made him think of Alex when he saw them in Barnes  & Noble, _A Passage to India_ among them. Alex kneels beside the end table that hosts their Christmas tree, a tiny bonsai with a single red bulb ornament and flimsy star perched on top, and shifts some things around to add a few new gifts to the teetering pile. “Get any sleep last night, love?”

“No,” Miles sighs. “Too worried.”

Alex straightens up and pads toward him. “I were thinking about it while I was out. I think it’ll be alright, yeah?”

“And why is that?” Miles says, eyeing the toast that’s just popped. 

“He’s a kid. And from what I’ve seen of him, he’s probably just embarrassed,” Alex shrugs. “I don’t see any reason to assume he’d do something malicious.”

“I dunno,” Miles says, eyes on the floor. “I hope you’re right.” He’s thinking of Nathan’s expression, just after they’d pulled away, the slideshow of emotions that cascaded across his features. One of them had definitely been some brand of animosity, he’s sure, but it’s still a matter of whether Nathan will use it. 

Alex reaches him, slides his arms around his waist and kisses him on the side of the mouth. He’s trying to alleviate Miles’s anxiety, and though Miles appreciates the gesture he knows it won’t make any long term difference. He’s caught by Alex’s smile, though, like always, and finds his lips twisting upwards of their own volition. 

m m m

Two weeks out from his scheduled defense date, Alex has another meeting with Josh Homme that sends him into another whirlwind cycle of procrastination and feverish productivity. Miles is amused by the dysfunctionality of it, in part because it takes his mind off Nathan, who’s gone AWOL since their last meeting. Miles has only gone into work sporadically, but once Christmas is properly in sight he gives up all together and resigns to worrying from home. 

With the holiday approaching, Alex, too, seems to give up on his responsibilities. They spend the mornings in bed - sleeping or fucking or reading, or all three in the space of an hour - and though it’s not quite like the vacation Matt and Breana are on in Key West, it seems infinite in its loveliness. 

“It’s gonna be alright,” Alex murmurs every now and again, and sometimes Miles has the urge to ask if he’s talking about Nathan or India or both. 

Regardless, though, his answer is always, “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it! And I wrote a little one-shot called _Helium_ this week, if you've not seen it already :)

Christmas, Miles has noticed, always seems worthy of so much more ebullience when you’re around people with children.

Not that he didn’t enjoy his morning with Alex - the sleepy, sardonic _happy christmas_ across the pillows, the lazy, half-assed breakfast, and then the expression on Alex’s face when he’d unwrapped the plaque with his name and title on it. He’s never been able to get a read on whether Alex likes Christmas in general or not, but he is comforted by the fact that Alex definitely likes _this_ Christmas.

They’d headed over to Little Yorkshire (sometimes referred to as Nick and Kelly’s, even though Jamie and Katie live on the third floor) some time after midday, Miles slipping into several of the sweaters Alex had placed beneath the tree for him in an attempt hypothermia. Not an easy feat, Miles found, as the cold wind ripped through the layers of wool he’d swaddled himself in while they waited for the bus. He’d fingered the silver chain around his neck that Alex had given him also. Noted that it, at least, was still warm. Like the palm of Alex’s hand. 

Alex, sitting beside him on the bench, noticed him hunched and shivering and leaned over to wrap his arms around Miles, kissing him briskly on the cheek simultaneously. “God, how in the hell are you still cold?” he chuckled. “Three fucking sweaters.”

Miles had laughed until it turned into a cough and Alex’s smile melted off his face.

“M’fine,” Miles brushed him off before Alex had been able to articulate his concerns.

Now, surrounded by friends and festivity, he’s finally warmed up. Hearst had dragged Alex off immediately to hear his opinion on what St. Nicholas has brought him, leaving Miles and Matt to dig into the spiked eggnog Katie has made. 

“Good morning, I take it?” Matt asks, handing Miles a mug. 

“Lovely,” Miles replies. “Yours?”

“I dunno,” Matt’s brow furrows. “I were just thinking it might be time to have something like...all this.” He motions vaguely toward the living room, still littered with wrapping paper and the remnants of Hearst’s excitement. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Miles agrees, nodding gravely. He’s not really sure what he’s saying or what it entails - all he knows is it seems correct. “In America?”

“I suppose,” Matt shrugs.

“When did we all get so old?” Miles sighs, smiling ruefully. 

Matt puts a massive hand on his shoulder and snorts, “Christ, I wish I knew.” He downs the rest of his cup and heads for Breana and Kelly on the other side of the room, leaving Miles to observe what real domesticity looks like on his own. 

m m m

The New Year approaches and Miles finds himself reaching out to drown himself in Alex’s worry rather than his own. Better to concern himself with obsessively fact-checking what little is known about the ancient Dravidians than spend too much time contemplating modern India or the silence Nathan has so far settled for. 

So he spends the long, uncommitted days following Alex around as he zips frantically between libraries, or making him tea to try to stop him from pulling his hair out over a dissertation that really _is_ finished, no matter what Alex tells himself. The afternoon after Boxing Day a package arrives from his mother, with a leather bound notebook for Alex and the obligatory loofa for Miles - his brief stint as a teenager with back spots was the beginning of the running joke between them, and every Christmas since has been an excuse to gift him some sort of shower-related item. Alex chuckles when he sees it, then dips a hand beneath Miles’s shirt to feel the now unblemished skin. There’s also, in her Christmas card, the annual reminder to get tested for all matter of unpleasant things, “not because I don’t trust you, darling, but because a mother worries.” Miles gives a grim smile, as he always does, at her concern. 

Once they get down to the last seven days before his defense, Alex seems to mellow out. It’s New Year’s Eve that he properly gives up. Miles leaves at nine in the morning to collect some bits for the party they’re hosting that night and comes back three hours later to find Alex still in bed, buried by duvet. Miles takes a moment to throw a few things in the fridge before approaching the lump in the bedroom. 

He sits down on the edge of the mattress and has to dig for a moment before he can locate Alex’s head. “Al,” he murmurs, nudging him awake. “Al, love, c’mon.”

“Hmm?” Alex shifts languidly, freeing one bare arm and cracking his eyelids. 

“The boys are coming over in a bit, la.”

“A bit?”

“Well, like seven hours,” Miles relents. “You still should pull it together, though.”

Alex groans, one hand snaking out to the bedside table to push at his laptop until it falls onto a discarded pillow and out of sight. “Can’t look at the bloody thing if I intend to stay sane,” he grunts in explanation when Miles raises an eyebrow. One brown eye peaks about from beneath the pillow to reassure himself that the dreaded dissertation is properly gone from his line of vision.

“Fair enough,” Miles says, then adds, “Look, you know Homme wouldn’t put you up to this if you weren’t ready. It’d make him look bad. You can’t really be but so worried, yeah?”

Alex sighs. “I know. I know it on an intellectual level,” he trails off for a moment, reaching for Miles’s long fingers. “I just...I just wanna do it right, ya know?”

“Yeah.” Miles finds himself smiling fondly as Alex maneuvers their joined fingers into abstract shapes. Eventually, Alex drags himself into an upright position, stretching lethargically as he’s released from the sheets, until he catches Miles watching the flex of his bare torso. 

“If you keep looking at me like that neither of us is gonna make it out of bed,” Alex quips, face enveloped quickly by a cheeky grin. 

“Not the worst thing I can think of.” Miles reaches out one reverent hand to trace from the dip between Alex’s collarbones all the way down to his navel, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. “Seven hours and all.”

Alex waits only to crack his neck before diving into Miles’s lips. 

m m m

By midnight, they’ve gone past the point of claiming to be responsible adults and have submitted to the bliss that only comes with being pissed out of one’s mind. When the countdown actually begins, Miles has to be woken up - he’s passed out with his feet in Matt’s lap and his head face down in Alex’s left thigh. Nick has laid down on the breakfast table but raises his empty champagne glass when the live feed from Times Square gets down to the last ten seconds. Jamie and Katie, groping each other in the corner beneath Alex’s plants, notice none of this. The few other guests that have stuck around are in various states of similar devolution. 

At zero, Miles has sat up enough to slump against Alex and receive a sloppy New Year’s kiss that dissolves into giggles relatively quickly. Miles grabs a fistful of Alex’s curls to keep from keeling over again, and while the crowd freezing their arses off in New York cheers, all he sees is Alex’s brown irises turning a lovely shade of tawny in the warm light. 

“I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”

Miles isn’t sure which one of them says it, but the blush that follows is shared by both. 

The last of the guests stumble towards home around two, leaving Miles and Alex with the flat in a state of disarray it may never have seen before. Miles, having considerable trouble staying upright, manages to turn off the length of Christmas lights they’d hung over the kitchen window before it burns the place down. When he makes it back to the bedroom, Alex is already there, sprawled on his stomach and fast asleep atop the covers. Miles attempts to pull the duvet over both of them with one lackadaisical arm. He’s ready to drop dead when his head hits the pillow, only to find a slip of wrapping paper there with a smattering of drunk handwriting across it. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus long enough to read it properly.

_Watching your arm flex or your tongue flit over your lips inspires a feeling of suffocation, more vanquishing than the thrill and fear of a jet engine in take-off._

Miles momentarily marvels at Alex’s ability to string together so many words when he’s as plastered as he currently is. Still, it’s as lovely as ever, and he’s just sober enough to think to put it on the bedside table so he can wake up to it in the morning. He turns off the lamp, leans over until he finds Alex’s cheek to kiss, and disappears into heavy sleep. 

m m m

“Okay, I’ve got a good one.”

“Bring it,” Miles replies, buttoning his shirt in the mirror on the back of the closet door. 

Alex pops up from where he’s leaned down to pull the duvet back on to the bed and says, “Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, Ray Davies.”

Miles snorts. “You’re so predictable.”

“Just pick,” Alex laughs. 

“Kill Paul, he’s had a good enough life. Fuck Mick, ‘cause he probably knows what he’s doing in that category, and marry Ray because he seems like a sweet guy.”

“Didn’t think you went for sweet guys,” Alex smirks, tossing a pillow back towards the head of the bed. 

“You’re not sweet?” Miles asks, reaching for the tie he’s left hanging on the door. 

“I’m a right arsehole,” Alex declares, rounding the bed with a devious expression. Miles closes his eyes and parts his lips in preparation, but all Alex does is snicker and tug at Miles’s half-done tie knot until it falls apart. 

“Wanker,” Miles mutters.

“Told you,” Alex retorts with a chuckle, reaching for a discarded pair of jeans somewhere behind Miles’s back. By the time Miles has re-tied the tie, Alex is pushing the hair out of his eyes and looking for the same sweater he’s been wearing for the last week. 

“It’s by the lamp,” Miles offers. When Alex continues to search ineffectually, Miles pads over to the spot in question pulls the dark sweater out from beneath the laptop. “Mind if I check my email?” he asks, flipping open the screen. 

“Go for it,” Alex replies, catching sight of one of his cacti in the front room and quickly becoming distracted. 

Miles has been avoiding all things work related for the last few days, minus the occasional cello practice just to clear his mind. Unfortunately, the dutiful part of him has won, at least for now, and is compelling him to log into his work email and confront whatever fresh hell awaits him there, if any. 

In the disheartening multitude of unread emails, only one manages to catch his eye and squeeze his chest. 

“Shit,” he murmurs. He feels himself pale. For once, he’s not cold, but the sweat springing up along his hairline is. “Oh, fucking hell.”

Alex wanders back in at his exclamation, sees Miles sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed with a spontaneously white-knuckle grip on the edge of the laptop. “What’s happening?”

Miles’s mouth twists into a few familiar shapes, but in the end he only lets out something near a grunt, and hands the laptop to Alex. He watches Alex’s brow furrow as his eyes rapidly scan the email. 

“That’s not _necessarily_ a death sentence,” Alex says. “Alice is the department chair, yeah? I thought she was in Morocco for the holiday.”

“I guess she got back,” Miles croaks. He appraises the shaking of his hands detachedly, then resolves to sit on them until he calms down.

“She’s probably just gonna hear your version of events,” Alex reassures. “It’s your story against Nathan’s, and they’ve got no reason not to believe you when you say it’s a...misunderstanding. Nothing unethical happened. I can’t imagine what they can pin on you without any evidence.” He sits down beside Miles and looks through the email one more time. “Meeting’s Friday?”

Miles nods weakly. 

“And I’m defending the Monday after.” Alex affects his best American accent and adds, “Yikes.”

Miles laughs a little, feeling some of the color return to his face. 

“And you and Alice get on, don’t you? She’ll understand.” Alex shuts the lid of the laptop and squeezes Miles’s knee. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Mi.”

Miles agrees, with some hesitation. Regardless of what Alex says, Miles has spent the week since the incident with Nathan going through each of their interactions, making sure he really hasn’t lead him on in any real way. In part because he wants to know if Nathan has anything substantial against him, but also because he does feel some pity for the boy, for the naivete such an action requires.

“We’ll pull through,” Alex chirps, then dives back into re-reading his new copy of _A Passage to India._

Miles catches a glimpse of the blue hard case his cello rests in during the winter months and starts toward it, thinking that if he can find something difficult enough to play, it might let all the tension slip away. He decides on the Boccherini that Suki’s been working on, and though it’s not terribly strenuous, it is brazenly beautiful in a way he’s never going to get tired of. 

m m m

Friday morning he disentangles himself from Alex at half seven, Alex muttering _prat_ when Miles takes half the blankets with him. 

“Don’t get shirty with me,” Miles snaps, but can’t muster any ferocity behind it. 

He huddles beneath the pile of bedclothes while he picks out one of his more toned down suits. Alex turns over to watch him just when Miles tosses the duvet off his shoulders and hurries to crawl into a shirt before he’s too cold to function. 

“Trying to look less gay?” Alex asks sardonically. His eyes, however, are entirely serious. 

“Yes,” Miles deadpans. 

While Miles straightens and re-straightens his tie, Alex slips out of bed and meanders off to put the kettle on. By the time Miles’s appearance meets his own rigorously high standards, Alex has tea for both of them and is working on frying a few tomatoes on the antique of a stove. 

Alex places a plate and a mug in front of him, then cards a hand through Miles’s hair by way of persuasion. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Miles manages to affirms. He motions toward the impromptu breakfast. “Ta, love.”

“It’s nowt.”

He thinks of all the meals Alex has made him in the past, some considerably more painstaking and elaborate, and somehow this one seems to be on a whole new level of sublime. “How’d that meeting with Homme go yesterday?” he asks, realizing he’d completely forgotten to implore before, caught up in his own anxieties.

Alex shrugs from where he leans against the counter, massive hands wrapped around the still steaming mug. “I told him I thought it might be alright and all he did was frown.”

“That’s pretty good for him, though, yeah?”

“Yeah. I think it was his equivalent of confessing his undying fatherly affection for me.”

Miles snorts. “Told you he doesn’t hate you.”

Alex shakes his head with a grin. “We’ll leave _that_ to be decided only after we’re sure I don’t embarrass him on Monday.”

“Just go in drunk so that if you do fuck up you can blame it on the alcohol,” Miles offers. 

“Fuck me, Mi, you should’ve been an advisor,” laughs Alex. He takes another sip of his tea before making a face and putting it next to the sink with an air of finality. “I need to remember to get mum to send us more tea. I can’t keep drinking this American shit.”

“Might as well just fully convert and start drinking coffee,” Miles sighs in agreement, glancing at the clock on the microwave. “I need to get going.”

“Alright.”

Miles, with the onset of winter, has programmed in the extra minutes necessary to get into proper cold weather gear before his commute. Alex watching, while still in only in shorts and a worn Smiths shirt, bites his bottom lip in a way that suggests he’s more worried about his dissertation, and possibly Miles’s meeting also, than he lets on. 

“It’ll be fine,” he says, once Miles is finishing with the arrangement of his scarf. 

“Yeah,” Miles replies distantly, mind already on the hours ahead. 

Alex cups his cheek to give him a brief, warm kiss and a smile that’s mostly reassuring before sending him on his way. 

m m m

He arrives to the meeting fifteen minutes early, and consequently is told by Alice’s assistant to wait in one of the floral printed chairs until the appointed time. Once sitting, there are several things that catch his eye around the room and by the time he asks Alice’s assistant for confirmation an unease has already curled in his gut. 

“Yeah, officially, she’s ‘retired’,” he explains. “Truth is, she got a better off from Oxford for ethnomusicology research.”

“Those limey bastards,” Miles says, trying for a playful smirk. “So she’s over there now?”

“She’s breaking in her replacement before she leaves permanently, but mostly, yeah,” the assistant says. “Speaking of ‘limey’…”

The door to the office opens just then, revealing a tall, light haired man in a suit nearly as neutral as Miles’s. His hair is a shade of blonde that’s close to white, while the burgeoning beard around his chin has flecks of gray. There’s something about the way he walks that has Miles immediately beyond sure that he’s looking at a fellow Brit, but certainly not a Scouser. 

“Mr. Kane, yes? I’m Kenneth Gilbert. Please come in.”

Posh. Miles chokes on his own sigh. Who’d have thought that the English class divide would permeate Rhode Island, of all places. 

He takes a seat again in the cluttered office, a space still clearly in the throes of transition. Boxes by the door are labelled with Alice’s initials and boxes closer to the desk are adorned with an abrasive _GILBERT._ Miles feels vaguely as if he’s thirteen again and has just been called into the headmaster’s office over his latest misdeed. He scowls while Gilbert slides into his desk chair. 

“So, as Ms. Gliracocha mentioned in her email to you before her retirement, we’ve had a complaint from one of your students. I assume you know Nathan Gensemer?”

Miles nods soundlessly, even though Gilbert has yet to look him in the eyes. 

“He claims that you sexually harassed him in your office,” Gilbert adds impassively. 

“What?” Miles croaks. “Harassed?”

“So you have a different version of events, then, I take it?” Gilbert finally looks up to meet his expression of shock and indignation with weary, half-interested eyes. 

“He kissed me, I pulled away to explain that I’m his teacher and it’s unethical,” Miles splutters. “Nothing else happened.”

“He seems to think differently,” Gilbert sighs, flipping over a paper on his desk. “I’m afraid we don’t have the time to go over this properly today. A committee is being called to deal with the problem. May I ask you a personal question?”

Miles frowns at him, but the other man doesn’t look up before pushing forward. 

“You _are_ a homosexual, yes?”

Miles is instantly aware that the question itself is a breach in ethics, but he won’t lie - and to not answer at all is answer enough. “Yes,” he replies shamelessly. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.” There’s a multitude of haughty replies he wants to add, among them something along the lines of _contrary to popular belief, I won’t actually fuck anything that moves,_ and _I would never get involved with someone whose grade I control,_ but thankfully none of these make it to the surface. 

Gilbert appraises him condescendingly. “Alright, then. I’ll let you know when our next meeting will be to discuss this further.”

He doesn’t stand when Miles turns to leave.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Ringo. That's all.  
> (PS sorry for how long this took, school started this week and its fucking wank.)

“Two first names. The fucking plummy creep,” Alex is saying, bent over to tie his shoelaces. Miles is still stripping out of his layers as he retells the events of the meeting. 

Alex stands. “He wasn’t trying to seduce you, was he?”

“If he was he was doing a shit job,” Miles shrugs. “And I think I saw a picture of a wife on his desk.”

“As if that means anything,” Alex snorts. 

“Regardless, this is bad,” Miles sighs, collapsing into the armchair and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Sexual assault...Christ. And it doesn’t look like Gilbert’s going to be much of an ally.”

“It’s still Nathan’s story against yours. And I suspect they’re going to be more likely to believe the adult faculty member’s version, despite any gay stereotypes.”

“Maybe.”

Alex disappears out the door, taking the voice of reason with him. Miles listens to his footsteps reverberate up the stairwell. Alex is off to the gym - he seems to be trying to buff up lately, or maybe just attempting to run off some of the stress his dissertation has instilled in him. Whatever the reason, Miles has been reaping the benefits. The crescent-shaped scratches on Alex’s biceps are testament to the pleasure Miles gets from grasping there when Alex fucks him. Miles dips briefly into those memories, rather than contemplating the shitstorm brewing in his professional life. 

He ends up cleaning, his go-to mindless task, and when he exhausts what few spaces are properly dirty in the small flat he turns toward organizing his music stores, sorting the solos into one pile and the orchestra parts into another. His mind whirs inconsolably as his hands work on autopilot. He’s tossing a Sibelius score into the orchestra pile when he hears the door open and Alex’s footsteps, heavy and sure, reverberate through the apartment. Miles watches him wander past the doorway to the spare bedroom, cheeks flushed and hairline wet with sweat. 

Later, they have a light dinner, Miles in two sweaters and Alex with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Alex, stirring a pot of penne in front of the stove, says, “Okay, fuck/marry/kill: Ringo Starr, Noel Gallagher, and David Byrne.”

“Ugh, hard one,” Miles ponders, sloshing the whiskey in his glass while he thinks. “Fuck Noel. I’d wanna hear what he says afterwards. It’d probably be genius. I don’t want to kill David Byrne, but I’m not sure he’d be a good lay and we both know that I’d have to marry Ringo. He’s flawless.”

“He _is_ very well preserved.”

“He’s the best fucking Beatle and you know it,” Miles laughs. 

Alex rolls his eyes, letting out a smirking groan. “I can’t listen to such lies.”

“Don’t deny your love for Ringo, darling,” says Miles with a grin. “You’ll make god cry.”

“As I understand it, shagging you into the mattress makes god cry, and there’s no goddamn way I’m gonna stop doing that.”

Miles laughs again, through a mouthful of gin and tonic. 

The night wanes to a close with the two of them in bed, Alex reading on his back with a book held precariously above his head and Miles beside him, staring at the ceiling, fingers intermittently grasping into fists around the thick duvet. Alex, eventually, puts his book down and reaches out to swap Miles’s grip on the bedclothes for his own hand instead. 

“Did I tell you Eugene invited us out to Fire Island after this whole dissertation shite is done?” Alex asks, attempting to lighten in the atmosphere in Miles’s mind. 

“Sounds like fun,” Miles says, one thumb brushing back and forth across the skin of Alex’s palm. “Might want to postpone it until the situation with Nathan is worked out.”

“Yeah, probably,” Alex admits. 

“We could go out tomorrow, if you want,” Miles offers. “Get some of the nerves out before Monday.”

“Sounds good.”

Miles watches how Alex’s lips press together for just a moment before he reaches for his book again. The idea of clubs always has Alex’s bashfulness winning out, at least briefly, but once he gets into it he invariably ends up having a perfectly nice time. Miles flips off the lamp above his head and turns on his side until he can pull Alex toward him. Alex chuckles, letting the book drop and enveloping Miles until he can press his face into the Scouser’s hair. 

m m m

So Saturday night they find themselves in a gay bar in downtown Providence, trying to sustain a conversation with the bartender over a Franz Ferdinand remix that is so deafening it almost brings out a grudging respect in Miles. 

“Cheers, love,” Alex says, clinking their martinis together and offering Miles a lilting smile, already unwinding happily in the sound and the chaos. 

Ultimately, they dance, of course. Mostly with each other, but with others, too. Alex disappears after a while and Miles ends up in a bathroom stall, getting blown by a nameless strawberry blonde bloke with fingers nearly as long as his own. 

“I like your accent,” he says afterwards.

“I like yours, too,” Miles replies with a cheeky grin.

At three, Miles and Alex are reunited, and Alex calls a cab that they end up groping each other in the backseat of for the full ride home. Even after Alex leaves him a hefty tip, the driver still won’t look him in the eye, and he speeds off into the night with Miles just barely out the door. 

“Rude.” Miles scowls, but breaks into a giggle a moment later when Alex grabs his ass heading up the stairs. It takes some persuading to keep Alex from ripping his clothes off before they make it into their own flat, and as soon as the door shuts Alex is on him, fingers digging into his hips and lips sucking bruises into his neck. 

“Bed, la,” Miles slurs. “Let’s do it proper, yeah?”

Despite Miles’s words, they initially only make it as far as the kitchen counter. Later, they end up in bed, high on sex and alcohol and relieved stress. Miles curls his fingers into Alex’s hair while he struggles to recover his breath in the wake of their activities. 

“Inhaler?” Alex murmurs against his lips.

“M’fine,” Miles replies. Alex is slipping towards sleep; Miles speaks again to pull him back. “Hey, Al?”

“Hmm?”

“Are there gay bars in India?”

“I dunno...probably,” Alex says, eyes half-closed.

“We’re not gonna be killed there or anything, right?” Miles asks, the night loosening him enough so that he almost laughs. He’s not sure why he’s asking - he’s been to India and already knows the answer. Something, though, is compelling the words to his lips, and he suspects that it’s less about what he’s saying and more about the fact that he’s speaking at all. 

Alex shrugs vaguely. “Probably not.”

For a moment, Miles says nothing. When he talks again, his voice has become embarrassingly shrill. The alcohol in his blood has turned on him. “Shouldn’t you know that?” he snaps. “If we’re going to give everything up for--”

Alex is asleep.

m m m

Neither of them shrugs off unconsciousness until early afternoon. Alex gets up first, but returns briefly to leave Miles a few aspirins next to where he’s drooling into the pillow. Miles doesn’t rouse himself fully until two, and by then Alex has degenerated into a dissertation panic deep enough to prevent Miles from mustering the venom necessary to start an argument where he left off last night. 

“Ta,” is all he says, holding up the pills and water Alex has left him. 

Alex waves him off, eyes still firmly planted on his laptop screen, and a moment later blurts, “I dunno why I’m so fucking nervous. Comprehensive exams were worse. At least there’s almost zero chance of failing this.”

“It’s the end of an era,” Miles muses, sucking down what’s left of the water in his glass and moving on to take bare slurps from the tap. “That could be getting to you. Transitions and all being difficult.” He squints against the throbbing behind his eyes and runs a firm hand over his face, from hairline to chin. 

“Transitioning to something better, I hope,” Alex says absently, eyes locked on the text in front of him. 

“Better?” Miles’s head pops up from where it’s halfway in the sink. “How could it get better than this?”

Alex snorts like Miles is being intentionally daft. He doesn’t look up, until a second later when he launches into desperate search through his many book piles for whatever essential volume he’s misplaced. 

Miles, feeling as though he’s been doused with cold water he really should’ve been better prepared for, loses his ability to form words. Feeling his extremities going numb, he heads for the shower, realizing his error in strategy only once the hot water is returning him to lucidity. Showers have always encouraged deep thought, and he can’t swallow it down like he wants to if all he has to occupy himself is shampooing his hair. Once he’s washed every body part in reach, he sits down heavily on the tiled floor, letting the steady pulse of the water slide down his back. He closes his eyes and inhales the wet air. 

Is that why Alex wants the grant so bad? Is what they have here not good enough? And if he doesn’t get the grant and is left in a life so apparently unsatisfying, where does that leave them? It occurs to Miles that they’re going to have to have a real conversation about this soon, and he’s not sure he’s prepared for the outcome. Not to mention, with the way his work life has him by the throat it seems that everything he’s grown to understand about his current existence is beginning to tear at the seams. And then there’s Alex himself, too - can Miles keep up with the trajectory he’s set for them? Is Miles losing his grip?

Miles has always been one to worry, regardless of the facade he puts forth for the majority of the population. And with the stress of the last few weeks bearing down on him, not even hot water and Alex’s words of comfort can unclench his shoulder muscles. By the time he shuts the water off, the mirror has fogged entirely and all bathroom surfaces have a fine sheen of condensation. Miles dries his dripping hair the best he can and then wraps the towel around his waist. 

“Hey, what took you so long?” Alex grins when he sees him emerge. “Did I miss something fun?”

Miles thinks about having the inevitable conversation now, but his eyes swivel and land on Alex’s laptop, still open on the breakfast table, and figures it can wait until Alex properly has a doctorate. Instead, he directs his attention toward the week’s shopping and slips out of the flat before Alex can detect his discomfort. 

m m m

Monday morning. Alex has been awake since six. Miles since seven, in preparation for his first lecture of the new semester. Alex shaves and then attempts to shape his hair into something recognizable, if not neat. While Miles makes tea, Alex pours his concentration into immaculately ironing his pants and then spends a solid fifteen minutes searching for a clean shirt. 

And then he’s on threshold, shrugging into his coat and viciously shoving his laptop into his bag. Miles catches his eye and smiles. 

“I love you. Good luck.” Miles slips an arm around his waist to pull him into a kiss. “Let me know when it’s over, yeah? I’ll get out of work as soon as possible.”

“Alright.” Alex pecks his lips again and sighs with a brief, anxious smile. “Love you too.”

At work, Miles gets into the routine of things and successfully pushes yesterday’s worries from the forefront of his mind. Because of the new semester, Nathan is no longer in any of his classes besides the evening orchestra rehearsals, and so he’s greeted by a lecture hall of new, unthreatening faces. He’s never had a problem talking in front of people and an hour and a half of undivided attention always does wonders for his ego. He’s moved up orchestra rehearsal because of the celebration planned at Little Yorkshire tonight, and because of the unusual time of day and the fact that the semester’s barely started, he makes it optional. As afternoon approaches, Nathan is wonderfully absent from his seat at the front of the first violin section. 

Miles, having broken up the few attendees into sectionals, turns to pull a few new scores to study from his shoulder bag and finds a sticky note attached to the front cover of the Mussorgsky piece. Alex’s handwriting, in purple pen, adorns it:

_I injected you into my bloodstream without reading the side effects. I have no regrets._

Miles is still smiling when his mobile rings. 

“Hey, la, how’d it go?” he asks, ducking into the hallway. 

“It went well,” Alex says, then breaks into a laugh. “No, it went really well...I nailed it.”

“Holy shit, love!” He’s not surprised, of course, but Alex’s exhilaration has infected him through the phone. 

“Yeah.” Alex laughs again, breathless. “Yeah, I did it.”

“Where are you? I’ll get me TA to take over and come find you.”

“M’already on my way towards you,” Alex says, and Miles can still hear the grin in his voice. 

A few minutes later Alex rounds the corner and spots Miles, who rushes forward to meet him. Alex is almost beaming too hard to return Miles’s kiss. They’re alone in the hallway, so Miles doesn’t hold back. The embrace dissolves into a tight hug, Alex’s nose pressing into Miles’s starched collar. 

“I’ve never a fucked a phD before,” Miles murmurs against his ear, and feels Alex quake slightly beneath him. 

“We’ll have to fix that,” Alex rumbles. Miles can’t see his face, but from the way they’re pressed together he can still feel Alex’s cheek rise in a salacious smile. 

Miles pulls away, letting his fingers drift down Alex’s arm until their hands link. He turns to pull him back out into the cold and towards home when a figure at the other end of the hallway catches his eye. 

_You fucking coward_ , Miles thinks, before he can question whether it’s a fair assessment or not, but after Nathan has makes the briefest of eye contact and ducks into a practice room without a word, Miles has no evidence to dispute it. Miles breaks his eyes from where Nathan had been standing and exchanges a look with Alex, whose grin has melted off his pouting lips. 

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Alex encourages, squeezing Miles’s hand. “No use dwelling on it now.”

“Yeah,” Miles relents, letting himself be lead into the afternoon sun.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!! xx

From where Miles sits on the kitchen counter, he can hear just the edge of Nick Cave’s baritone filtering in from the record player in Little Yorkshire’s front parlor. Occasionally, Matt’s laughter overpowers it and upsets the rhythm. Miles swings his legs and sips from the tumbler in his hand, mind far away. 

The email from Kenneth Gilbert came in as Miles was slipping back into his shirt after he and Alex’s vigorous afternoon shagging. His phone had chirped on the bedside table, marking the message urgent, and he’d read Gilbert’s note as Alex obliviously dragged his lips along the nape of Miles’s neck. Miles had gasped, and Alex had hummed, assuming the gasp was his doing until he felt Miles tense beneath him. 

Miles had not been surprised to find the words terse and brief, detailing how some new information had come to light and setting a date for Miles to come in for another meeting next week. Miles can’t imagine what “new information” he’s talking about, but it’s consumed his mind completely and debilitatingly. 

Since then, he’s been drinking. 

Eventually, though, the alcohol had turned him somber and he’d turned away from the party to brood in the kitchen, among the empty wine bottles and sliced cheese and child’s artwork pinned to the refrigerator. He’s aware that he’s being selfish and should be out celebrating with Alex on the day that deserves to be about him, but his limbs have turned leaden and his mind even heavier. Better to stew in the kitchen than to inflict his mood on the rest of the party. 

Unfortunately, Alex goes looking for him anyway. 

He slips into the kitchen to find Miles drinking alone and his lips twist into something, Miles thinks, resembling sympathy. The clatter of the party in the other room seems to fall away. 

“I’m sorry,” Miles says immediately. “I’m being a prick. You know I’m ridiculously happy for you, right? It’s just--”

“I understand,” Alex interrupts, a smile affirming his words. He’s wearing jeans and some sort hideous blue patterned shirt. He’s been approaching Miles since the Scouser began to speak, setting down his wine glass before winding his arms around Miles’s waist and settling himself between Miles’s knees. Miles, elevated from his seat on the counter, has already closed his eyes in anticipation by the time Alex’s lips meet his. 

Alex tastes of gin and stale smoke and a hint of the take-out samosas that Nick has deemed hors d’oeuvres. What is most heavenly, though, is his scent - that mix of tobacco and warm air and shaving cream that Miles knows so intimately. He abandons himself in the caress of Alex’s lips and the grip of his fingers and leaves behind all that impedes his happiness for the longest few seconds he can manage. 

Alex is just beginning to pull away when Miles catches sight of Josh Homme entering the room. 

“Well, well,” says Homme with a smirk, turning toward the selection of wine bottles in front of him. 

“Aye up, Josh. How are you?” Miles greets, his lips still centimeters from Alex’s, until the other man becomes aware of the intruder and whips his head around. Alex, predictably, blushes furiously, but doesn’t disentangle himself from Miles, who’s grinning cheekily. 

“I don’t understand a goddamn thing any of you people are saying, but other than that, fine,” Josh says, pouring himself another red. 

Miles laughs and Alex manages to snort a little as he shifts to lean against the counter beside Miles. 

“Excited about India, Turner?” Josh asks, taking a sip. “I talked to Kapranos today and he all but said you’ve got it.”

“Delighted,” Alex intones monotonously, and when Josh laughs he adds, “No, really. I didn’t mean to sound--”

“I know,” Homme interjects, amused. He pauses for a moment, evaluating his wine glass, then settles for taking the whole bottle with him. Over his shoulder, he calls, “You’ve got interesting things ahead of you, Al.”

Alex smiles at his back for a moment before turning to Miles. “He likes me a lot better now that I made him look good in front of Grohl.”

Miles returns the smile fondly and hopes he doesn’t look as pale as he feels. He leans his head against Alex’s bicep to hide his eyes, and Alex pulls him in with an arm around his shoulders. Eventually, though he has to unwind himself from Miles, kissing him just above the eyebrow and saying, “I better go back in there before they think we’ve gone off for a garden shag.”

“Alright.”

“We’ll get out of here soon, yeah? You look like you’re about ready to keel over.”

“M’fine. Don’t hurry,” Miles assures, trying for some conviction behind his smile. 

Alex’s fingers trace down Miles’s arm, over his pulse, and then pausing over his open hand. He lets the shred of a napkin drop into Miles’s half-expectant palm. “What’s this, then?” Miles murmurs, though he has some idea already. 

_If I could view you only through the haze of kaleidoscopic memory, then I would latch on to the callouses of your fingers and the curve of your spine and the uneven line of your teeth._

“Had to mention the teeth, did you?” Miles laughs.

“You know I like them,” Alex says. “You wouldn’t look right without ‘em.” He punctuates it by kissing Miles again, his tongue skimming over the jagged row of Miles’s bottom teeth, before leaning back smugly. “Bloody gorgeous.”

“Shuddup and go make sure Jamie hasn’t eaten all the olives,” Miles retorts, trying unsuccessfully to fight the smile from his face and the blush from his cheeks. 

m m m

Alex’s birthday. Miles doesn’t have class until the afternoon and rehearsals in the evening, so he turns off his alarm and spends the morning in bed with Alex, who’s still riding the high from his new title. Miles has to actually remind him it’s his birthday, but he seems indifferent. 

They spend the morning in various states of undress, sprawled over corners of the flat. They watch _Mighty Boosh_ reruns recorded at four in the morning the night before and fall asleep to a football game by noon. Miles leaves Alex sleeping on the settee to get showered and dressed for work, and when he comes back Alex is still passed out, arms wrapped around a pillow. Months of stress and exhaustion seem to finally be catching up with him. Miles leaves his birthday present, a rare Stooges vinyl, on the breakfast table along with a note detailing their dinner reservations for tonight. 

The afternoon’s lecture is uneventful, despite the fact he finds himself distracted by his own looming dread. The evening rehearsal is mandatory; the whole orchestra will be there, and though the chair rotation no longer has Nathan as first chair he’ll still be in plain view. Miles won’t be able to think. He already can’t think. Worry has consumed him. 

And maybe anger too. 

He gets Tinna, the new TA, to hand out the semester’s new music. They spend majority of the two hours sight reading and then zero in on what are likely to be the most problematic parts. The evening winds down, he gets back last semester’s originals, and is just getting ready to refile the spent music when he realizes the classroom hasn’t quite cleared. 

Nathan, violin case over one shoulder, stands expectantly among the crooked stands in his section. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Miles says quietly. 

“Why?”

“Because being alone with you has already cost me a lot,” Miles hisses. Once the words are moving, though, he can’t stop them, and he approaches Nathan until they can properly meet eyes. “I just...I don’t understand why you would lie. This could lose me my job. I could be unemployable. This is everything I was trying to avoid. I’m sorry if you got offended that I didn’t reciprocate your feelings, but this is too far.”

Nathan, for a moment, seems taken aback. Miles can see the gears turning behind his eyes as he fights for a response. Finally, he stammers out, “I really am sorry, sir. It’s not my fault.”

Miles sneers humorlessly and starts toward the door. “Don’t start lying to me, too.”

“I’m not! My mother--”

“We shouldn’t be having this conversation,” Miles interrupts. He and Nathan are barely a foot apart, and Miles already has one hand raised in the flood of acrimony before he sees what he’s doing. “I need to go. It’s up to the committee now, anyways.” 

He stalks out before he makes any more mistakes. The moment he steps out the door, though, he collides with Tinna, who seems to have returned to hand back the viola parts she’d left in her car. Judging by the white knuckle grip she has on the stack of music, though, she’s heard some of the conversation. 

“Have a good evening, Tinna,” Miles says, too tired to bother with whatever weak excuse or explanation he might have tried to offer. She says nothing in return. 

m m m

Alex, around being a generally terrible English TA, has been applying to jobs in the seemingly unlikely event India falls through. He hasn’t exactly tried to hide it, but he’s not explicitly told Miles, either. And Miles knows there’s no way he’s only applying to places in Rhode Island, or even New England as whole. Certainly, it warrants a discussion - but neither of them has said a word. 

It boils over on a Thursday when Miles come home to find Alex perusing job listing in Bangladesh. 

By the time Miles asks _what are you doing?_ , he’s already angry. 

If there’s one thing Miles has never understood about Alex, it’s his near complete inability to get properly riled up. Miles might be out-of-his-mind livid, and Alex will still be appraising him with a maddening level of cool. Eventually, though, he’s come to realize that Alex’s anger is stored entirely in the black of his pupils and while no other part of him may show any sign of indignation or ferocity, his eyes will be burning holes into Miles with every comeback. 

And it seems this fight will be no different than any other. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Alex, I thought we were in this together,” Miles spits, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I thought we were equal.”

Alex, leaning casually against the counter, says, “When you say ‘together,’ apparently what you really mean is I follow you around indefinitely instead of getting a chance to pursue me own career. Because staying here, where there is little to no opportunities for someone in me field, doesn’t really seem equal, does it?”

Miles, for a moment, is caught off guard both by his words and the chill in his voice. Finally, he manages, “I take it you’ve been thinking about this for a while, then?”

“Ever since you’ve proved yourself so averse to any form of change.”

Miles scowls. So like Alex not to say a word, to keep it all festering beneath the surface, and then be disappointed when Miles can’t get it together and read his mind. Miles takes a long breath before he says, “This is me dream job Alex. I’ve been in it less than two years. Did you really expect me just to get up and leave it the moment you decided this life and all wasn’t good enough?”

“I thought you’d at least try and support me, instead of just declaring that your position is far more valuable than anything I could want,” Alex says, turning the coal of his eyes down toward the linoleum of the floor. “I didn’t think you’d be so selfish.”

“Well, I’m not the only fucking one, am I?” Miles growls, snatching a box of cigarettes off the low coffee table and storming toward the door. It slams behind him as scrambles down the stairs, lighting up frantically as he goes. Alex doesn’t follow.

The stairwell is cold, but the night air outside is colder. Fresh snow from earlier in the week is piled up on the sidewalk, so Miles only goes as far as the front steps of the building before plopping down into a sitting position on the bottom stair. He’s forgotten his coat and is dressed only in polka dotted button up. Rolling the sleeves down all the way, he shivers unhappily, first cigarette already down to a nub. 

He looks out at the street - the shadows cast where the streetlights don’t reach, the glow behind curtains, the sedan sliding over the road’s icy surface. It creates its own peaceful lull with each of his ragged breaths, sometimes white in the cold air, sometimes tinged with smoke. He smokes through the whole pack and waits for his anger to turn to sorrow. He can’t feel his fingers by the time it does. 

His cold feet make getting up the stairs a challenging affair. He’s breathing hard by the time he gets to the top, teeth still chattering. His mouth tastes like sawdust from the cigarettes, and the burn in the back of his throat with each breath is as much a warning as it is welcome. He takes some solace in the fact that neither Alex’s concern nor his ire seem to be able to stop Miles from fucking himself up. 

The door’s unlocked. He opens it slowly, still holding out some hope that maybe Alex has gone to bed and all Miles will have to do is crawl in next to him and forget. He’s not so lucky.

Alex is lying on the settee, one arm holding a pillow to his chest, eyes expressionless as he takes in the eleven o’clock news. The flat is dark except for the white of the television but Miles scans the shadows and sees evidence of one Alex’s cacti on the floor, dirt crumbling out from where the pot has shattered on impact with the ground. 

Miles coughs feebly. Alex’s eyes on land on him, noticing the shiver emanating from his very bones. Alex is on his feet in seconds, reaching for the blanket over the back of the couch and approaching on light feet. 

“Christ, Mi, you’re freezing,” he murmurs, throwing the blanket over Miles’s shoulders and pulling him into an embrace without hesitation. Miles burrows the cold tip of his nose into Alex’s neck as he attempts to quell the shaking in his limbs. 

Alex doesn’t resume the argument, and Miles doesn’t have the energy to lure him into it again. Alex presses his oven-like hands to every patch of cold skin he can find until Miles regains some color. They head to bed in silence, but curl up in the usual position. Miles drifts into sleep knowing nothing is solved. In the twilight of half-sleep, he can’t imagine how anything ever will be.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s snowing again on the Wednesday Miles returns to the office of Ken Gilbert. The assistant outside the door is noticeably distant when Miles offers a polite smile in greeting. Miles sits down and bites the inside of his cheek while he waits. 

“Kane,” Gilbert greets when he appears from the office, handing a stack of papers and a flash drive to his assistant. He appraises Miles with eyes as disinterested as at their first meeting. “Come in.”

Miles follows him in and takes another seat, crossing and re-crossing his legs while Gilbert takes his time searching through the inbox on his desk. Miles’s eyes dart around the room - Alice’s boxes have disappeared fully, but Gilbert seems to have made little progress towards unpacking. Eventually, when he can’t stay still and silent any longer, Miles’s mouth moves of its own accord. 

“You said in your email that there was new information, yes?” he blurts, and Gilbert languidly raises his head to meet his eyes. 

“Yes.” Gilbert, again, doesn’t hurry before putting his pen down and continuing. “Are you familiar with the term ‘development admit’?”

“I’ve heard it used.”

“Crudely defined, it’s a student who did not necessarily meet the academic and extracurricular benchmarks needed to gain admittance, but was allowed in because of a generous donation from the pupil’s parents,” Gilbert explains with a sigh. 

“You’re not saying--”

“Nathan Gensemer’s family owns one of the largest convenience store chains in the American south,” Gilbert says matter-of-factly. “They paid for the vast majority of the construction costs of the newest quad. Effectively, he’s untouchable.”

Miles lets his face fall into the palm of his hand. It’s all coming together in his mind - Nathan comes out of the closet to his traditionally intolerant family, and under intense interrogation admits his crush on his professor. The parents smell blood; someone to blame for their less than satisfactory son’s unsavory sexual preferences. Eventually, they extract from Nathan the exact ammunition they need to take down the man that they see to have turned their son gay. The events are suitably exaggerated and filed with the highest university official they can get their hands on.

“Shit.”

Gilbert nods gravely. “Unfortunately, the committee assembled to evaluate you has already been pressured to assume you guilty. It is highly likely that disciplinary actions will be taken.”

“How bad?” Miles croaks. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Gilbert’s lips twist with the unpleasantness of his news. “They’ve streamlined the process. They’ll announce their verdict at a hearing next week. I’ll send you the time and place when I’m informed.”

Miles finally pulls his head out of his hands. “I can’t fight this, can I?”

“It seems we’ve been overruled by money and power,” Gilbert says resignedly, and something like sympathy reflects in his light irises for the first time. “Shady business, these American universities.”

“Indeed,” Miles replies, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. “So that’s it, then? Should I be looking for other work? How likely are they to show mercy?”

“I couldn’t say. I don’t know if you’re one to lean towards caution, but that’s all I can advise. I’m as blindsided as you are in this latest turn of events.” Gilbert stands, and so does Miles. He walks to the door on autopilot, unblinking. 

Gilbert murmurs a few more words, and though Miles thinks they may be of some sort of comfort, they become incomprehensible over the buzzing in his skull and the cold sweat dripping down his back. Some time later he finds himself on the sidewalk, tripping toward home, coat unbuttoned and scarf trailing limply behind him. He sleepwalks all the way back to the flat. 

The snow keeps falling. 

He doesn’t feel the cold until a few blocks from home, and so he sprints up the stairwell to try to get his blood moving again. By the time he gets to the third floor, the shock has worn off, and has been replaced with something else. The unfairness of it all is rubbing him the wrong way; he feels his shoulders tensing with anger, an anger directed at the universe as a whole. In the haze of his acrimony it occurs to him, strangely, that the whole question of India will become a rather moot point if he no longer has a job to keep him in the US.

“You’re not gonna fucking believe what just happened,” he growls the moment he steps inside. He turns to hang his coat and scarf on the rack behind the door, slowed by trying to brush the snowflakes out of his hair at the same time. The words spill out. “I go in to see Gilbert, yeah? The same as he was last week, naturally - supremely uninterested in my existence. And he casually lets me know that Nathan is in fact a development admit and so no one can do a goddamn thing. His parents practically own the fucking school. Or at least the faculty. They’ve basically already decided that I’m guilty. I dunno--”

He pauses to turn around when he realizes Alex hasn’t said anything. 

He’s standing at the sink, eyes directed out into the gray world through the window. In one hand, he has a white-knuckle grip on the neck of a half-empty vodka bottle, and the other is holding on to the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He gives no indication that he’s heard Miles’s words, eyes remaining unfocused. 

“What’s happening, la?” Miles asks, his voice losing its edge. The anger of a few moments before dissipates completely, and in its place he finds himself suddenly choked by worry and fear. 

Alex doesn’t look at him. He picks up a shot glass and pours himself more of the clear drink, before saying mutedly, “Heard from Homme today about the grant.”

“And?” Miles is aware, on some level, that he’s holding his breath. 

Alex closes his eyes and presses his lips together in a tight line. He takes one long breath, and as he releases it he replies, “They gave it to Casablancas at Columbia.”

“What? That doesn’t...but Josh said…” Miles trails off and tries again. “I don’t understand.”

Alex bites his bottom lip. “Me neither.”

Miles forgets about words and crosses the room in three quick strides. Alex caves into his touch with something that resembles desperation. Miles holds him close, until he can feel the steady beat of Alex’s heart matching up with his own ragged breathing. Quarrels, briefly, are forgotten, and Miles brushes away some of Alex’s hair so he can press his nose into the nape of his neck. The most visceral of comforts. 

Alex pulls back a moment later, his face noticeably paler. He takes one look at the nearly empty vodka bottle again and sprints haphazardly toward the bathroom. Miles follows, and finds Alex on his knees over the toilet, dry heaving pathetically. The Scouser crouches slightly to pull the other man’s hair back. When he finishes, Alex tumbles backwards to sit against the off-white tile of the opposite wall. 

“Can’t hold me liquor, apparently,” he mutters. His skin is still a stark shade of white, and a fine sheen of sweat has developed at his hairline. He yanks at his sweater until he can pull it over his head and toss it away. 

“Maybe you’re coming down with something,” Miles says, handing him a glass of water and settling down on the floor beside him. He knows, though, that Alex isn’t getting sick. Sitting in Ken Gilbert’s office he had found himself fighting nausea, and ultimately only just managing not to vomit all over the department chair’s shoes after getting the news. And he hadn’t even been drinking. 

Alex sums it up perfectly with, “A bit of a shocker, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” Miles’s voice is barely a whisper. He shifts to put an arm around Alex’s shoulders and draw him in. Alex leans into him and reaches one hand out to squeeze his knee. 

How long they stay like, curled into each other on the bathroom floor, Miles isn’t sure. 

m m m

It snows through the night. Miles looks out into the street below them, streetlights reflecting off the fresh white, and frowns at the ice buildup on the powerlines. It’s midnight, and he’s making tea by only the artificial light of the outside filtering in. 

He prepares two mugs and heads back towards the bedroom. Neither of them have eaten since breakfast, and Miles has called in sick to both his classes and the evening rehearsal. A day lounging with Alex in comfortable quiet might once have been peaceful - now it feels both loaded and infinite. The silence leaves his ears ringing. 

He hands Alex his usual mug - the one printed with one of Alexa’s paintings, a watercolor of the English countryside. Miles slurps at his own tea hurriedly, swallowing it down scalding in the hope that some of the heat will warm the hollow that seems to be widening in his chest. He slides in again next to Alex, among the blankets and the books and the silence. 

After a few long minutes - or possibly hours, he’s not sure - he murmurs, laying against Alex’s ribs, “What about all those other jobs you applied for?”

“It won’t be the same,” Alex says. “You spend years on one subject, one area...it’s all you think about, ya know? Even other grants aren’t gonna put me where I want to be. I need to get over there. I...I deserve it.”

“Did Homme know--”

“No. He’s as shocked as I am. It’s not a particularly competitive field, but I guess they wanted to give it to an American.”

“There’s gotta be some solution...something you can apply for…” Miles loses the energy to speak, to fight for something he doesn’t even want. His wish, in some capacity, has come true: Alex isn’t going to India. And yet nothing seems fixed. 

Alex doesn’t say anything immediately, but Miles can tell he’s thinking, the words collecting behind the coal of his eyes. Finally, he says carefully, “How much money do we have in savings?”

Miles shrugs. “I dunno. Four thousand, approximately? Wiped out a lot of it last year when we went back to visit Mum.”

Alex’s eyes narrow. “A ticket to Delhi is about fifteen hundred each, I believe. One way, of course.”

“You’re not saying--”

But Alex is still talking, his brow furrowing in thought. “We could do it. After you get paid at the end of the month, we could get over there with enough left over to get started.”

“Started? And then what? Both unemployed? No language skills? I dunno where you’re going with this.”

“Surely there’s some historical institute or summat that needs someone like me. Maybe I could get hired by the people I interned with a few summers ago.” Alex’s eyes already seem a shade lighter. 

“And me?”

“There’s loads of schools that need music teachers, probably.”

Miles just looks at him for a moment, disbelieving. “You know I’m not a ‘music teacher’, right? I have a master’s degree in solo cello performance. I’ve conducted world-class European symphonies.”

“I know you’re a fucking prodigy, Miles, but--”

Miles holds up a hand, fighting to keep the anger off his face. “I’m not at a place like Brown by accident, la. I worked my whole fucking my life to get here.” He breaks off for a moment to chuckle humorlessly. “It’s like you said, innit? It just wouldn’t be the same anywhere else.”

Alex’s eyes have gone hard again. The betrayal lurking there almost has Miles backing down. Alex says, very quietly, “Well, I’m really goddamn sorry your snobbishness prevents you from--”

“Don’t fucking call me snobby, Alex. You’re really one to fucking talk.”

“Well, I don’t see you coming up with any solutions! You said yourself you think you’re going to be sacked, so what difference does India make anymore? You think you’re better off here, marked by a sexual harassment charge?” Alex glares at him, his grip on his now cold tea tight and harsh. 

He’s getting angry, Miles thinks, and he’d be lying if he claimed that he doesn’t take some satisfaction in that. 

“Oh, so I’ve washed out, now it’s your turn to have a go? Have I fucked up so bad I don’t get a say?” Miles shoots back. 

Alex pauses, letting a long breath out through his nose. “You’re being irrational. I’m going to sleep.” He turns abruptly, then, arranging himself under the sheets and putting his head down on the pillow with his back to Miles. 

“Yeah, well, fuck you too, la.” 

Alex doesn’t take the bait. His breathing has a forced evenness to it that drives Miles’s pulse further upward into animosity. He’s brimming with comebacks and accusations but he knows it’s too late; Alex has compartmentalized his anger and no longer will let himself react.

Miles fights his way down beneath the blankets, curling immediately into a tight ball. No part him touches the body beside him. It’s going to be a long, cold night. 

m m m

In the morning, Alex is gone.

Miles stumbles into the kitchen to find only a note etched on the back of a paid water bill:

_Hearts. You’ve stolen from me and I’ve stolen from you. Love is nothing but larceny._

Miles keeps it, of course. Just like all the others. His eyes scan the room, and he sees Alex’s coat is missing, as well as his usual black boots. Miles thinks about texting him, but ends up not bothering. If Alex is intent on being an enigma for the next few hours, then Miles won’t take that away from him. 

He makes himself a light, uninspired breakfast, then sits alone at the table, trying to mute the roar of thoughts inside his mind. The flat is awash in grey winter light, the only sound the creaking of the heaters or of the wood floor when he shifts in his chair. Overnight, it’s become abysmal. 

He mulls last night’s conversation over in his mind, despite his efforts not to. It’s true, Alex had only been looking for solutions - conveniently, though, those solutions mostly benefit him. Miles thinks about how hard it was just to work up the courage to move to America, even though he knew the language and knew approximately how things worked. India is something entirely different. The few weeks he’s spent their with Alex in the past half offered him little insight in to how he’d manage day to day life, especially if they come in jobless and clueless. Miles used to think of himself as adventurous, as open, but Alex’s proposition is showing Miles a far more cautious, resistant side of himself. In all honesty, he’s not sure he likes it, but he’s equally unsure that letting go of everything they have here will fix what seems to be his nature. 

And, there’s always the possibility he won’t lose his job, anyways. And if he’s still definitively tied down here, he can’t imagine what Alex’s next solution will be, if he’s so insistent that there’s nothing for him in Rhode Island. 

Or, more accurately, he _won’t_ imagine it. 

He spends the morning vacuuming to drive the silence from his ears.

In the afternoon, he heads to class, but doesn’t go home before rehearsal as he normally would. He cocoons himself in his office to grade and organize and finally do all the menial tasks he’s been putting off indefinitely, perhaps waiting for a day like this, when the only thing that’ll keep him moving is some sort of skewed sense of duty. 

Rehearsal goes smoothly. He’s undistracted by Nathan’s pleading glances, but short-tempered with the so far unsatisfying trumpet section. The evening winds to a close and he drags his feet getting home. 

When he arrives on the third floor landing, Alex is there, struggling with the key. He hears Miles’s footsteps on the stairs and swivels his head, giving only an eyebrow raise in greeting. He leaves the door open for Miles as he steps inside, and as Miles follows he catches a whiff of alcohol and sex where Alex had just been standing. 

“Evening,” Miles says stiffly, as they stand together to remove their coats. Alex’s hair is abnormally messy, and when he peels off his scarf he reveals a dark hickey just above his collarbone. Miles brushes a thumb over it. “You didn’t do anything unhealthy, did you?”

“All safe.” His breath smells like gin, but he doesn’t seem particularly drunk. And his spirits don’t seem particularly lifted, either. “I’m sorry for disappearing.”

“I’m sorry for making you want to,” Miles sighs. Had he not had to go to work, he could very easily have taken to coping the same way Alex has. It’s nothing personal. Nothing they do with others is ever like it is between the two of them. Actual love has a tendency to make things far more meaningful, more pleasurable. 

The way Alex is looking at him confirms this. 

Miles eventually lifts his chin to meet the other man’s eyes. Alex reaches out one hand to cup his face, and when he presses their lips together it’s soft and chaste, and probably in stark contrast to whatever he’s been up to the last few hours. For a brief second, Miles forgets about last night, and he melts. 

Miles slips an arm around his waist to pull him close and tries to pretend like this is the only moment that matters.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into the last stretch, y'all. Thanks for reading <3  
> PS: My knowledge of homosexuality laws/acceptance in India and UAE is limited. Correct me if you see anything that isn't right!

Alexa graduates from RISD in mid-January, with little official fanfare since it’s out of the usual season. In compensation, she throws a massive party at her flat the day after. 

Miles and Alex are invited, of course, and Miles molds his face into something jovial before drowning all thoughts of India in liquor and conversation. He ends up chatting with the same bloke he had at Alexa’s gallery opening a few weeks back - again about Takashi Murakami, and though Miles still doesn’t know a goddamn thing about art, he keeps talking without a shred of self-consciousness. His own indifference is almost inspirational. 

Alexa’s flat is neat and decorated splendidly, the throw pillows matching the art on the walls, every color placed perfectly to catch the light of the setting sun. Miles knows he’s slipped into considerable inebriation when he finds himself spending several long minutes contemplating the way a streetlight rebounds off a red leather chair by the window. 

The party winds down after midnight, and, naturally, the Englishmen are last to leave. Sprawled over Alexa’s sectional sofa, Matt asks, “So what’s next, Lex?”

She’s sitting with one leg folded beneath her. After a long sip from her wine glass and wistful smile, she says, “I’m thinking of heading back to the UK, actually.”

“You want to be eligible for the Turner Prize, right?” Nick asks. 

“In the long run. At the moment I’m just hoping for a good dealer.”

Matt grins and wraps an arm around Alex, who’s sitting beside him and attempting to blend in with the upholstery. “Well, Turner _is_ a prize, but I think you may have some competition on that front.”

The group laughs, and Alex smiles weakly. He’s not drunk enough to pretend to be anything but tense. Miles watches him from the other side of the couch, and eventually is the one to declare they should be getting home, even though it’s Saturday night. 

At the bus stop, he takes a moment to slip an arm around Alex and kiss him on the widow’s peak. He’s not entirely sure why - maybe because he’s drunk, maybe because it’s cold, or maybe just because it’s what he would’ve done naturally if the air between them wasn’t so thick. 

The ride home is silent.

m m m

He’s dusting under the settee when he finds it.

_I am mildly obsessed with the way your cheeks flush in the cold and the devotion your unwavering eye contact galvanizes in my very bones._

He can’t tell how long ago Alex wrote it. It’s on a scrap of the official stationery from Miles’s office desk. He wonders if Alex forgot to give it to him, or chose not to, or if he gave it to him and Miles forgot to put it with the rest. Now, he wipes off whatever under-the-settee fluff has attached itself and puts it in the box with the others. 

Alex comes in, then, the snowflakes in his hair and on the collar of his coat returning to their liquid state when they land on the warmth of his skin. He sees Miles bent over, still halfway underneath the furniture. 

“You clean when you’re nervous,” he remarks, pulling at one stiff boot. 

“Not necessarily,” Miles says, straightening up to balance on his knees. 

“You clean when you’re trying not to think,” Alex amends.

Miles concedes the point by shrugging. 

“Mi, we should probably talk,” Alex says, crossing to the sink without making eye contact. 

“I don’t wanna fight anymore.” Miles sits back on his haunches, then backs up all the way until he can lean against the couch, knees drawn up to his chest. 

“What’s the alternative?” Alex turns to face him. “Apologies won’t do any good if nothing gets resolved.”

Miles kneads at the bridge of his nose. Finally, he says, “We won’t know anything definitive until the disciplinary committee decides what they’re going to do with me. Since that’s a rather important detail, let’s just hold off ‘til then, yeah?” His words are hoarse, his voice laden with exhaustion. It’s the best he can do to stall the greater storm on the horizon. 

Alex sees him deflating and relents. His voice is somewhat gentler when he says, “Alright, love.”

That night, Alex pins him against the wall, his lips chapped but insistent, and, briefly, Miles considers all else inconsequential. 

m m m

“Okay. Marry, fuck, kill: Morrissey, Paul Weller, Carl Barât.”

Alex plucks the cigarette from between Miles’s lips and takes a long drag before replying. “Fuck Moz, kill Weller, and marry Carl so Doherty can’t have him.”

“Ahh, you traitor.” Miles teases. “Not the Modfather!”

“Life is unfair, Mi,” Alex laughs. Miles feels it reverberate from where their chests are pressed together, their feet tangling in the sheets at the end of the bed. 

Miles takes the cigarette back, but only takes the slightest of puffs before leaning in to kiss Alex languidly, holding the fag aloft until it nearly burns his fingers. They’ve smoked enough tonight that the room is going to smell forever, but neither of them can be arsed to care. Miles is having a hard time caring about anything these days, beyond the here and the now. This scene is familiar, manageable. Alex under his fingers, beneath his lips, rolling off his tongue. This is not India or Nathan or ultimatums.

Eventually, Alex disconnects, breaking from Miles’s embrace to haul himself toward the window over the head of the bed. He struggles with the old frame until it comes up halfway and a rush of cold air blows his hair back. 

“We’re gonna lose all the heat,” Miles says with a scowl, as Alex chucks the cigarette butt out into a snow drift. 

He settles back down beside Miles. “I’ll keep you warm,” he murmurs, pulling the Scouser close, one thumb making slow circles over the skin of Miles’s jaw. He’s settling into sleep, Miles can tell. 

“Hey, Al?”

“Hmm?”

There are many, many things on the tip of his tongue. Some of them are accusations, some are sweet-nothings. Too many sound like goodbyes. All he says is, “You know I love you, don’t you?”

m m m

Monday arrives and Alex has a preliminary interview with NYU Abu Dhabi. In an attempt to hold onto some shred of solidarity, and maturity, Miles volunteers to take the day off and go into the city with him. It’s his first go at a proper gesture of peace, a reminder that they are still one, even if the future has yet to be resolved. 

In line with the plan to catch the morning train into New York, Alex gets up early enough to fret over his lack of ironed shirts and whether or not he should wear a tie. He eventually ends up borrowing an entire suit from Miles then spends ten minutes pacing pointlessly around the bedroom, intermittently frowning at himself in the mirror. 

“You look fine, la,” Miles says, still half enveloped by duvet and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

Alex bites his lip. “I think I may need a haircut.”

“Not right this minute, I hope.” Miles slips on to his feet. “Anyways, I like how it is now. Like the mane of a fucking lion, or summat.”

Alex just frowns again, until Miles reaches out to tug on a long curl and fetches a smile to the edge of his mouth. He brings their lips together gently, as gentle as the first sunlight peeking in through the window, but pulls away prematurely. Something about it feels insincere, and after they stare at each other a few moments Alex takes a step back and tells him to get ready. 

On the train, Miles falls back asleep on his shoulder, even as Alex fidgets nervously. Miles isn’t sure exactly how bad Alex actually wants this job, as Alex’s current level of anxiety is consistent with nearly anything done outside of the usual routine. He seems to burn off some of his unease, though, walking purposefully through Manhattan’s brisk mid morning air. Miles alternates between watching him and watching the jagged line of where the buildings meet the sky. He’s always been a little baffled by New York City, in a way that is neither pleasant or unpleasant. Though both unnerved and impressed by its immensity, mostly he finds it simply inspiring a continuous state of surprise. 

He parts from Alex with a quick kiss and a murmured “good luck.” And it is sincere - regardless of what getting a job in the United Arab Emirates would actually mean, he can never really wish Alex anything but success. Alex gives him a small smile in return and kisses him again before disappearing inside. 

And so Miles finds himself alone in New York, his breath billowing white with each exhalation. 

He begins to wander, uncommitted. He thinks about finding lunch, but decides to wait until Alex is finished so he won’t have to eat alone. He’s always despised eating alone, even if Alex is only in the other room. He hates having to stare at an empty seat and always ends up wolfing down whatever’s in front of him without hardly tasting it at all, only to feel gluttonous and lonely afterwards.

In Hell’s Kitchen, he wanders into a luthier’s shop and has a long chat with the owner while she restrings a bow in the back room. She offers it to him to try, afterwards, and he makes use of a nearby cello for sale to produce the first few phrases of everyone’s favorite Bach cello suite. When he looks up again, she’s smiling at him benignly, but with something like concern behind her light irises. He wonders if it’s obvious to the rest of the world that he’s off-kilter, or if the universe has simply kept spinning without him. The look in her eyes suggests the former. 

When he gets a text from Alex saying he’s on his way out, he bids the luthier good afternoon and heads for the door, but she calls to him again once he’s on the threshold. 

“I never caught your name.” She crosses the room, lips twisted uncertainty. 

“Miles,” he says, offering a gracious hand. “Miles Kane.”

She takes his hand briefly, then pulls something out of her back pocket. It’s a shiny, brightly colored pamphlet, and when he unfolds it it takes a solid minute for him to formulate any sort of response. 

She beats him to it. “I’m sorry if I’m being presumptuous but...you just seem like the type who needs help.”

He skims the cover of the booklet again, sure that he’s reading it wrong. They told him America is a bit backwards but reading _Pray the Gay Away_ in bold, unironic print somehow makes it feel both real and surreal. He snorts before he can stop himself. 

“Right,” he says quickly, trying for a polite smile. “Thanks. I have to go.”

She gives him the same smile she’d directed at him before, except now he realizes that it’s pity lurking there, not just concern. On the way back to Alex, he’s not sure whether to be amused or angry or just appalled; each emotion is still fighting for dominance when he lays eyes on Alex, leaning against the building as he waits. 

“Hey, how’d it go?” he asks once he’s in range. 

Alex shrugs. “They were disappointed in my Arabic skills.”

“You speak Arabic?”

“No.”

Miles laughs and takes his hand, leading him wordlessly toward a deli he’d seen on his way in. Once they’re seated by the window, Alex opens up again. “I dunno about it. The job might be more teaching than I’m up for and they could make me no promises about whether the UAE government will open up any new dig sites.”

“It’s up to you,” Miles says, hoping he looks suitably impassive. 

“You don’t care?” Alex retorts.

Miles looks fiercely up from his food. “Don’t do this now.”

“But--”

“Of course I care. It just doesn’t make any difference what I think at this juncture, does it?” His voice has dropped an octave, maintaining a level of menace without disrupting the customers at the table to their left. “I don’t know if I still have a job, so I can hardly have an opinion on yours.”

Alex just looks at him for a moment, then huffs and goes back to eating.

Miles, eventually, can’t take the tense silence any longer and lets his head pop up from inspecting his silverware. “Do I look gayer today than usual?”

Alex looks up to appraise him, eyes roaming from tight black trousers to crisp button-up to crimson suit jacket. “I don’t think so.”

“‘Cause before you finished, a woman handed me _this_.” He hands over the pamphlet and Alex’s eyebrows shoot upwards. 

When he laughs, the tension between them snaps like a twig. 

“Oh my god,” he breathes, a hand over his mouth to try to stifle his chuckle. And Miles snickers, too, finally accepting the absurdity of it. 

“How is...what...in Hell’s Kitchen, of all places?” Alex laughs, thumbing through the pamphlet as he talks. “It literally says ‘the only man you should love is Jesus.’”

Miles smirks. “Un-fucking-believable.” 

As they leave, Alex links their arms together and though part of it, Miles thinks, is just out of defiance, he’s just glad they’re happy with each other again. Even if he knows it’s brief. 

And so they become tourists. 

They go to Central Park and lay down on the rocks to stare at the grey sky, punctuated by tree branches and birds and the tips of skyscrapers, holding hands like teenagers. Miles can’t decide if it feels like a first date or a last one. 

When afternoon comes they head back down Fifth, past the street vendors across from the penthouses, then cut sideways toward Times Square. Alex indulges Miles for a few cliched selfies in the iconic spot, locking lips in front of where the ball dropped only a few weeks before. As they’re huddled over Miles’s phone, scrolling through the pictures, Miles catches just the wisp of another familiar accent on the breeze and looks up to wave to a Welsh family on the other side of the median, connecting briefly in the way that the kindred in a strange land tend to do. 

The sun sets, the air grows even more gelid, and they stroll down Broadway to keep warm. Miles’s eyes are on the lights, on the way they rebound off Alex, shaking off some of his skin’s winter pallor and illuminating the brown of his eyes. They turn a corner away from the heaviest stream of pedestrians and Miles can’t wait another moment before pulling him in and crushing their lips together. Alex kisses back vehemently, but just when his hands begin to roam, seemingly of their own accord, he pulls back and murmurs against Miles’s lips, “Wanna get a hotel room?”

Miles hesitates. “It’s going to be hellaciously expensive, you realize.”

“It’s off season. We’ll manage.”

A slow smile creeps up Miles’s face. “Alright, then.”

The rates get better as they head away from Times Square, and eventually Alex leads them into a hotel that promises views of the Hudson and balconies to properly enjoy it. The front desk man asks if they have any luggage and Alex, with a shy smile, claims the airline lost it all. 

The room itself is sparse and white, but that’s what Miles has always liked about hotel rooms - the cleanliness, the asceticism, the bare-slate nature of them. He immediately hurls himself, still fully clothed, on to the fluffy white bedspread, eyes focusing in on the ceiling. He hears Alex’s footsteps, and then there’s a hand on his leg, working it’s way teasingly up to his inner thigh before veering away at the last moment to his pocket. Alex chuckles at Miles’s disappointed expression as he digs the lighter out of Miles’s tight trousers. 

There comes the sound of the door to the balcony sliding open, and the waft of cold air that follows rouses Miles back to his feet. When he reaches the balcony railing, Alex hands him an already lit cigarette and for a few long minutes they smoke in comfortable silence, watching the jam of cars below them, bordered on both sides by meandering pedestrians. 

Alex takes a long breath. “I don’t think I want the NYU job.”

At first, Miles isn’t sure what to say. He realizes that Alex is trying to be conciliatory - it’s almost an apology, or at least an acknowledgement of Miles’s wishes. Miles huddles against the cold, knocks the ash of the end of his cigarette, and asks, “Why not?”

Alex shrugs, not so much a gesture of ignorance, but more an acknowledgement of the obvious reason. Miles smiles a little, inspecting the contrast between the night air and the cloud of smoke between them. 

“It’s probably a bit too dangerous, anyways,” Miles says.

“Hmm?” Alex hums, eyes directed upwards. “Oh, right. Yeah, I can’t seem to get a consistent opinion on whether homosexual acts are really prosecuted there, and whether foreigners are included. In writing, though, they do seem rather vehemently opposed to me existence.”

“It’s the same in India--”

“It’s not the same in India,” Alex interjects, brow furrowing. “You’ve been there. You know that. And in the hundred fifty years since they properly criminalized homosexuality, only two hundred people have been prosecuted.” He glances at Miles’s taken aback expression. “Don’t look so shocked that I actually _know_ something about the country I spent four years studying, Miles.”

He huffs, then drops his cigarette to grind it out beneath his heel. He turns to head back inside, leaving Miles leaning against the railing, letting out a sigh as the cold breeze blows right through his coat. He hadn’t meant to restart the argument, but it seems they’re destined to go around in circles indefinitely, ruining every evening in between. 

Eventually, he hears approaching footsteps again, and then Alex’s warm breath is against his ear, his arms encircling Miles’s waist from behind and effectively enveloping him in warmth. “Sorreh,” Alex breathes, and Miles leans back into the embrace. “It’s just...well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Miles says. “There’s no point in talking about it now, I s’pose.”

Alex seems to have given up on words entirely, his lips pressing to the skin just beneath Miles’s chin. 

And Miles can only sigh in relief.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together*   
> it's time to Fuck Some Shit Up

“Well?”

Alex has been waiting for him in his office, curled in his usual chair by the window, but when Miles appears on the threshold he springs into a standing position immediately. 

Miles lets out a long breath and unwinds the scarf from around his neck. “Three weeks unpaid suspension, starting next week,” he says weakly. “They went easy on me. I guess Gilbert had more sway than he thought.” More likely, Miles thinks latently, Nathan might have been able to reconcile somewhat with his parents, or at least enough to get the target off Miles’s back. 

“That’s good news,” Alex says, and Miles can see the same conflict between relief and foreboding that must be twisting his own features mirrored onto Alex’s. 

Miles nods, lip caught between his teeth. He _is_ relieved, that much is certain, but already it’s beginning to be consumed by worry over Alex’s and his own indecision. He focuses his eyes on the carpet as Alex’s hand brushes down his arm, eventually linking their fingers. 

Alex says, “So where does this leave us?”

Miles can’t look at him. He solves this problem by pulling Alex into his arms, resting his chin on his shoulder so his face is half buried by Alex’s curls. “I guess that’s up to you.”

m m m

Time passes. Miles, largely, is unaware.

He goes to work, he does the shopping, he comes home. Sometimes he cooks, sometimes he cleans. He watches telly and irons his pants for tomorrow and calls tech support when their wifi speeds aren’t what they should be. The mundanities of life persist even when Miles has given up. 

Time passes for Alex, too, or at least so Miles assumes. They exchange the necessary dialogue, the necessary kiss in greeting or goodbye. They share the housekeeping tasks in the usual way and sleep next to each other without any disruption. They’ve battled their way up to the crossroads but now that they’re here, all the animosity and betrayal seems to have seeped out of them, and they’re left waiting for the other to make a decision. And Miles, for all he wants this strange limbo to be over, can’t let go of either his job _or_ Alex, leaving the stalemate in Alex’s hands to cure. 

The faux civility that’s erupted between them leaves him unable to get a grip on the way Alex’s thoughts are going. He walks by the other man’s open laptop every now again, sees the job listings open, sometimes with locations like Doha and Amman and sometimes like Hartford and Worcester. Miles hopes they are at least equally conflicted, and the fact that Alex has neither left for the far east nor given in to settling for New England seems to support that. Miles can’t get a fix on whether Alex would really choose a career over what they have, and it bothers him that he’s never been so in the dark over Alex’s motives.

Quietly, they avoid each other. Miles stays at the office longer than he needs to and starts doing private lessons in one of the insulated practice rooms rather than at home. Alex claims the wifi in their flat has been too weak lately to get anything done, so he heads to the Sciences Library on campus, presumably to keep looking for employment opportunities and search for publishers who may be interested in his dissertation. 

Miles can hardly remember why he thought things would get easier once the business with Nathan was sorted. 

He’s started going to the gym again to take his mind off things. His doctor has been saying for years that he needs to improve his aerobic fitness, regardless of his bad lung habits. Running, though, has always terrified him - memories of sprinting through the streets as a child until the burning in his chest made him cry for air, his mother taking him into a pediatrician when he’d cough for weeks in the hottest weeks of the summer. It’s the helplessness of it he can’t stand. In some ways, he’d started smoking as a teenager just to feel as if he had some control, that if his lungs weren’t going to work then he wanted real possession of it. Now, he’s just addicted. 

These days, though, the tightness in his chest is almost welcome, whether it be from the motion of a treadmill or the scorching cold of the winter air as he pounds down the sidewalk in new, proper running trainers. He carries his inhaler with him, of course, and knows his limitations, but it’s easier to focus on the pain than to let his mind wander to anything else. And, thankfully, Alex usually isn’t around to worry about him lighting up as soon as he gets his breathing under control. 

“You’ve been running,” Alex remarks, his voice unreadable, the first time he sees Miles dressed in his new athletic gear. “All tarted up for it and such, I see.”

“Just trying to look out for me health,” Miles says, smiling at him with tired eyes. Alex sets down the take-away he’s brought home with him and they eat in front of the telly, watching _Breaking Bad_ reruns without any further comment. 

Alex lays his head in Miles’s lap and Miles cards fingers through his curls, tangled from the wind outside. Alex nods off, or at least seems to, but Miles can’t close his eyes. He’s too busy mapping every aspect of Alex, afraid his chances to do so are thinning out. He catalogues the spots on his chin, the scar just below his eyebrow, the curve of the tip of his nose, the way his fingers still twitch in his sleep. It’s all such a distinct brand of torture. 

Eventually, he slides himself out from beneath Alex, careful not to wake him. He slips a pillow under Alex’s head and throws a blanket over his half curled form, switching off the television and then the overhead light as he heads toward the bedroom. He’s on autopilot as he unties his shoes and slips out of his t-shirt, stiff from dried sweat from his earlier run. He might as well already be asleep when he falls into bed, alone. 

m m m

Nathan has been avoiding him since the ruling, which makes life incrementally easier. He isn’t sure if Nathan’s doing it out of disappointment of the nature of the verdict or in deference to it, but Miles hardly cares. He yearns to put it all behind him, to pretend it never happened. They went easy on him and he figures the best way to be grateful for that is to never speak of it again.

His suspension, thankfully, doesn’t start immediately; he’s able to finish out the week, but will be forced away come Monday. He hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s going to do then. Avoiding Alex is so much easier when he can retreat to work. 

Running is the obvious choice when it comes to filling his time. It’s confiscated his life. On the last Thursday before he’s condemned to time off, he comes in from his new three mile loop as the sun sets on an unusually warm day, and finds Alex’s shoes by the door. He’s home, and Miles’s eyes dart up to search for the familiar sight as he struggles to regain his breath from the last few minutes of exertion.

When he spots him, leaning ever so casually against the kitchen counter, it’s all he can do to dig out his inhaler before all his airways close from the shock of it.

It’s the hair, of course. 

Alex is at his side in a second, but he waits until Miles’s breathing has evened out again before asking, “Alright?”

Miles nods, suddenly exhausted, and looks back up at Alex. His curls are gone, replaced by a fringe hanging into his eyes, the sides coming down to frame his face. The ends just barely touch his collar, instead of overflowing it as they used to. 

“Do you not like it, then?” Alex asks, directing his gaze upward as if trying to see his own bangs. 

In truth, Miles is more stunned than anything else. He says, “No, you look fine. M’just surprised, is all.”

“It’s not all that much of a radical change…” Alex trails off, inspecting himself in the reflection in the window. 

“It looks good, love,” Miles says, recovering with a reassuring smile. He tosses his inhaler on to the coffee table, noting that it probably wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t already been breathless. Still, he feels a bit ridiculous for having such a visceral reaction to something so apparently mundane as a haircut. 

Things are changing. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Alex says quietly, and Miles is unsure who he’s trying to convince. 

Miles doesn’t reply, instead disappearing toward the bedroom to strip out of his sweaty clothes and head for a shower. He finds the back of a receipt taped to the bathroom mirror. 

_The first time your lips touched mine, I gave up my sanity. I have yet to feel the need to recover it._

He reads it three or four times, until the words blur into meaninglessness and his lip stops trembling. In only a dressing gown, he wanders back into the front room to find Alex bent over his notebook, elbow resting on an anthology of Sandburg poetry to scratch absently at the back of his head. 

“Hey, Alex?”

“Hmm?” he hums, head raising slightly even those his eyes are still on the paper in front of him. 

“I…” He trails off, and Alex doesn’t seem to notice. He’s not sure what he had planned on trying to say, anyways, but he has a feeling that it was probably going to sound vaguely pathetic. Desperate at best. He could beg Alex not to leave and maybe it’d work for a little bit, but tying Alex down with hysteria is not a long term solution. 

When the silence has stretched on for what seems like an eternity, Alex finally turns his head to look back at him, an expectant eyebrow raised. 

“Nothing,” Miles murmurs, sparing a glance back down at the words in his hands. 

Alex nods in distracted acceptance, slipping back into his own world. Miles takes a long breath and walks away. 

m m m

The word _party_ probably would’ve had Miles feigning a headache instantly, but the text from Matt says ‘get-together,’ and that likely means it’s just the usual bunch having drinks in Little Yorkshire’s living room. Maybe Alexa and her boyfriend, too, if they’re free. Miles doesn’t really feel like going out and being merry, but an evening of not having to play down his accent to be understood is always at least somewhat attractive. 

Alex seems to possess the same sentiment, and so makes no objections when Miles proposes they go. The moment they arrive, Alex is immediately drawn off to have his new hair poked and prodded at by the lads, and Miles slips off snickering to pour himself a drink.

By the time he returns to the front of the house, Nick is knee deep in a story about trying to drive to Newport on the wrong side of the road while drunk. Intermittently, Matt reaches over to tug on the edge of Alex’s bangs, while Alex attempts to slap his hand away with an amused smirk. Matt’s too quick for him, though, managing every time to retreat cackling and unscathed. 

Miles drains his glass of wine too quickly. He’s also aware that he’s being unusually quiet, and he heads off for a refill before anyone can notice and start to ask questions he neither wants nor is able to answer. He’s purusing his hard liquor options when he hears footsteps on the sagging wood floor.

Jamie appears just as a heavy thud and a crash echo from the other room. 

Miles raises an eyebrow.

“Helders and Al were wrestling when I left,” he says by way of an explanation, smirking slightly.

Miles snorts, smiling, “Typical.”

Jamie opens the refrigerator on the other side of the centrally placed island, and without taking his eyes of its contents he says, “You seem mardy, mate.”

“Do I?” Miles sighs, followed by a long swig. His eyes swivel for an escape route, but Jamie seems to suddenly be taking up all the air in the room. 

“You and Alex…” Jamie looks to him, eyes narrowed, refrigerator still open in front of him. 

“It’s really not worth talking about.”

“Heard you got in some trouble at work, though,” Jamie continues, undeterred. In all honesty, Jamie is not the person Miles expected an interrogation from, but now that it’s in progress, he’s not surprised. There’s a perceptiveness to him that Miles has always found curious, and he’s reminded of it now in the way Jamie waits for a response with just the right amount of impatience. 

“Yeah,” Miles relents. “Does not pay to be gay, apparently. I’m suspended for a coupla weeks starting Monday.”

“Christ, that sounds well serious.”

Miles shrugs. “It’s all sorted now, I s’pose.”

“You don’t seem particularly chuffed over that.” Jamie finally pulls out a bottle of seltzer and tupperware full of some sort of brownish leftover, letting the fridge swing closed with a rattle.

“Not me biggest problem anymore.” Miles smiles grimly. 

“The thing about Al…” Jamie’s lip curves upward for a moment before he shakes his head. “Eh, you probably already know all the important shite about him. Just don’t let him do owt stupid, yeah? He’s prone to that.”

“Yeah, he is,” Miles agrees, and almost laughs. It ends up as closer to a cough. Jamie cuffs him tenderly over the ear as he walks out and Miles smacks him on the back of the neck in retaliation. After a few moments, feeling slightly less despondent before, Miles follows him out. 

m m m

It’s the middle of the night. Possibly the early morning. All Miles knows is that he’s awake, and he shouldn’t be. For the first few moments, he doesn’t understand why this is, but then his eyes focus and Alex’s face comes into view, looming over him. Miles has been shaken awake and now Alex is looking at him intently, waiting for his senses to sharpen out of the shroud of sleep. 

“What’s going on?” Miles slurs. Slowly, he realizes the bedroom is still dark, and no foreign sounds are invading it. No shattering glass or heavy feet. He doesn’t perceive the urgency that would necessitate reaching for the metal baseball bat beneath the bed.

Alex’s eyes are a shade of uninterrupted onyx in the darkness. By the set of his mouth and the creases around his eyes, he’s been awake for a while. 

“What’s wrong, Al?” Miles tries again, feeling himself slowly climb into consciousness. 

“Mi,” he sighs, and Miles feels his gut twist at the tone of his voice. His next words, though, don’t match the despair in his eyes. “I love you.”

“Alex, what the hell is going on?” Miles snaps, his patience thinning as his alertness grows. Alex doesn’t stand down, though, waiting with wide eyes. Miles waits for an answer, equally obstinate.

Finally, when it’s clear Alex has no intention of explaining, Miles relents. “I love you too. But you already knew that.”

Alex nods, mute, still halfway on top of Miles. Eventually, he rolls back over on to his own pillow, bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“Are you alright, la?”

He nods again.

“I’m going back to sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex replies, voice small. 

Miles reaches among the sheets until he finds Alex’s warm hand, giving it a quick squeeze with his own before shutting his eyes again. Despite the oddity of the last few minutes, it doesn’t take him long to slip back toward sleep in the warmth and the darkness. When Alex speaks again, Miles is sure he’s dreamt it, that it’s just a residual of a half-asleep encounter that he’s nearly forgotten already. 

“Miles, I’m sorry.”

m m m

When he wakes, something has shifted. He can feel it. 

Alex isn’t beside him, and he hasn’t been for some time, if the temperature of the sheets is any indication. He props himself up on one elbow to survey the room, and though he finds himself the only occupant, nothing is out of place. And yet there’s something strange settling in the pit of stomach, something that’s turning the air sour. He slides from between the sheets, but pulls the top blanket off with him to wrap around his t-shirt clad shoulders. 

He pauses, though, before he’s out of the room, finally spotting what’s amiss. Still, he can’t tell if it’s a cause or a symptom of the wrongness of the morning. It’s the mirrored doors of the built-in closet, just to the left of the door into the room. Miles can’t remember the last time either of them bothered to close them even halfway, always leaving them nearly wide open so that clothes spill out from every angle. Today, though, they are drawn together and latched, clearing the space for a suitcase Alex has dragged from its home in the corner of the room. 

Miles nearly falls apart right then and there. 

He steps into the kitchen to find Alex seated at the breakfast table, laptop open in front of him. He’s dressed in jeans and a Bowie t-shirt, utility jacket over his shoulders. His long, pale feet are bare, and his bedhead is impressive. He’s not typing, just staring at the screen with one hand wedged beneath his chin for support. He looks up when Miles enters the room, and his dark eyes fall to where Miles’s mouth has fallen slightly agape, to where the hand grasping the blanket around his shoulders is beginning to shake. 

Alex’s eyes dart back toward the computer screen, and then to Miles once more. He stands abruptly, slipping his arms into his coat in one smooth motion. Miles watches his face intently, the way his eyes are nearly closed and his lips are pressed tight together. He knows that look, even if it’s not a common occurrence. Alex is on the verge of tears. He fumbles his way into his shoes with one hand over his mouth, eyes directed to the floor. 

Miles can’t speak. He can scarcely breathe.

Alex swings open the door to the flat, but makes the mistake of looking back. They meet eyes across the room, and it’s like looking down the barrel of a gun. It goes off when Alex slams the door behind him. 

Miles feels the blood pulse in his ears as he turns his gaze toward the open laptop. He pads toward it, mind blank. It takes a good long while for his eyes to focus in on the lettering, to comprehend that he’s looking at a confirmation email. A one-way, single ticket to New Delhi, via Newark and Brussels. Something decays inside him. He loses rational thought.

From the landing on the other side of the door, there comes a muffled sob.


	10. Chapter 10

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring at the wall when there comes a knock on the door frame. He’s left the door to his office open, as he has a tendency to do, and now he has the strangest sense of déjà vu when he finds Nathan standing on the threshold. Miles tries to blink some of the vacancy out of his eyes, glancing down at the work in front of him. It’s foreign to him, and he can’t remember at what point he gave up on it. His eyes swivel to his watch but it gives him no clues. 

“Hi, professor,” Nathan says, once it’s clear Miles is incapable of speech. 

“Can I help you?” Miles manages, voice ragged. 

Nathan shifts uncomfortably for a moment, and Miles doesn’t bother to politely look away. “I just wanted to apologize, I think.”

Miles raises an eyebrow.

“I know I caused a lot of trouble for you that you didn’t deserve,” he continues. “I never meant for that to happen, for anyone to know. My parents…”

“I understand.” Miles is suddenly desperate for the conversation to be over, for the room to slip back into stagnant silence. He remembers, now, what he’s supposed to be doing - finishing up the last important details before his suspension, putting off what can be put off and taking with him what can get done from home. Two weeks of lost rehearsal time is going to be a blow, and he should be focusing on softening it, but he’s in a bad way and he knows it. “You’re forgiven. It was a difficult situation for all involved.”

“Good,” Nathan says, smiling shyly. “Yeah, good. Thanks.”

Miles looks up at him, dismissing him with a nod. They’ve reached an understanding Miles never really considered possible in the last few weeks. Then again, this isn’t the reality he thought he’d be living a month ago, when he and Alex snogged for New Years and basked in the glow of something that seemed almost carefree. Compared to this, at least. Keeping the job and losing Alex was not the eventuality he’d planned for, even if it had always been a perfectly viable possibility. Perhaps he’d never really thought it could break free from its status as a nightmare. It makes him wonder if he ever had Alex at all, or if all of it was just some sort of strange, deluded dream. 

After he’d read the flight confirmation email two or three more times that morning, he’d wandered out into the pathetic little garden behind the building and sat down in the snow, still in only his shorts, a t-shirt, and the blanket he’d dragged of their bed. 

(Soon to be _his_ bed, he supposes.)

He’d smoked the two packs he’d grabbed on his way out and wished for a third, and when the will for a cigarette was too much, he’d finally cried. Not a proper, rib-shaking bawl - he’d been too stunned for that. The tears had been timid, dripping down his nose and warming the snow where they fell. A few violent sniffles and then he pressed his palms into his eye sockets until they came away dry. His face was flushed but the rest of him had gone cold, and not just from the snow. When he’d eventually crawled back inside, there’d been no Alex to hold onto until he warmed back up.

Very calmly, he acknowledges this to be rock bottom.

It had been creeping up on him in the last few weeks, and a few times he’d thought he’d achieved it, when he was still waiting for the committee’s decision and he and Alex had been at each other’s throats. But it occurs to him now that when you hit it, you know it without a doubt. Sitting in his office, now, he has no uncertainties. He’s made it. 

He packs up his work laptop, usually stationed on his desk, and takes a few other bits with him - odds and ends that may be able to distract him in the coming fortnight. The stress of the last few weeks has had him straying from the time usually allotted to his cello, and he regrets it, but he knows any proper practice time will be sullied by his mood. He spares a glance at Alex’s chair beneath the window, still adorned by one of his scarves. He hesitates before taking it with him, winding it around one hand before closing the door behind him. He inspects the striped pattern on the scarf, unsure if he’s taking it for Alex or himself. 

Outside, the cold does nothing to clear his mind. He floats in a most uncomfortable way through the routine motions of existence - he steps on the bus, Providence passes by, and then he’s in front of the familiar triple decker in the blink of an eye. Upstairs, Alex is still AWOL. Probably at Matt’s, considering that’s usually his best option when he needs to be Anywhere But Here. 

It occurs to him, then, that he didn’t even look at the date and time of Alex’s flight. He could be leaving tomorrow, or in six months, and Miles wouldn’t know. Neither idea gives him much solace. They will both leave him in pieces. 

He’s watering Alex’s plants when he hears the door creak open. 

“Hey.” Miles isn’t surprised to hear that familiar baritone greeting. He doesn’t turn immediately, hydrating the last two perennials in the row on the window sill before looking back over his shoulder at where Alex is standing, flushed and ruffled from the cold wind. 

“Ta.” Alex motions towards Miles’s act of kindness and earns himself a nod in return, once Miles puts down the miniature watering can. 

“I owe you an explanation,” Alex begins, stepping further into the room.

Miles holds up a hand. “I don’t see how that’s gonna do me any good.”

“It’s not that I don’t love you--”

“Clearly, though, it is,” Miles snarls. “You’re so fucking eager to get away from me. To get on a whole other fucking continent.”

Alex’s expression goes from imploring to fierce in a second. In the last few weeks, Miles has seem him properly angry more times than in the last four years combined. “It’s your inability to compromise that put us in this situation in the first place,” Alex says, words slow and menacing. 

“My inability to compromise? You’ve got to be shitting me, mate, considering you hardly even bothered with the idea of looking for jobs nearby. Too good for that, are you?” He can see Alex working to formulate a response between every condemning word, but Miles won’t let him in. He says, “I don’t wanna do this anymore. Your decision is made.”

With that, Miles turns on his heel and heads for the bedroom, the door closing behind him just as he collides with the sheets. 

m m m

Miles still has his face in a pillow when he hears Alex’s knock. His answering grunt is apparently invitation enough, because Alex slips in wordlessly, and a moment later the mattress caves in where he sits beside Miles’s sprawled feet. 

“Miles, I--”

“Please don’t,” Miles says firmly, half muffled by bedding. “Whatever it is. Just get the fuck out of me apartment, if you’re so keen to go.”

“Come with me.”

Miles just shakes his head and bites the inside of his cheek. He should’ve known it’d end like this. A stalemate ending in a stalemate. And then he’ll be alone and that’ll be it.

“We can make it work long distance, then,” Alex pleads, reaching one hand out to rest just above Miles’s kidney. “I don’t...I don’t want this to be over.”

“Well, you coulda fucking fooled me, la.”

“Miles…” He shifts further up on the bed, and Miles, in response, tries to climb his way into a sitting position so that he can slide away. But Alex grabs him before he can escape, and Miles crumbles at the touch. Alex slides an arm around his torso from behind and holds him close, jean-clad legs tangled in the sheets. Miles lets his head hang, fingers reaching up to grip tightly at the arm Alex holds him with. 

For a moment, all they do is breathe together; Miles squints his eyes shut and grinds his teeth, his fingers leaving crescent-shaped marks in Alex’s forearm. The shock is finally wearing off, and with it any hint of denial. He’s been betrayed, imminently abandoned. He drowns in every breath Alex takes.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he chokes, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s said it aloud. “Abandoning…”

“Are you really sure _I’m_ the one that’s doing the abandoning?” Alex hisses, but surely it’s nowhere near as poisonous as he intends it to be. 

“Is this it, then?” Miles rasps. He feels infantile, grasped by Alex, impotent to change his own fate or anyone else’s. He is systematically being scattered, the pieces planted across the city, rooting him here. He should’ve known.

Alex doesn’t reply. He shifts slightly, bringing his other arm up to lift Miles’s chin. Miles lets him, his head rising until they’re eye to eye. He’s not sure whose idea it is, but then they’re kissing, and Miles is twisting his torso to bring his hands up and cup Alex’s cheeks, pulling him closer like it’s his last chance. Their lips meld to each other’s easily, familiarity taking over, and Miles nips desperately at Alex’s bottom lip as the other man’s hands slide down to his hips. 

“I love you,” Alex murmurs, their lips hardly a centimeter apart, as Miles’s fingers work at the buttons of his jeans. 

Miles just shakes his head.

m m m

The early winter night has closed in by the time Miles lights up, breaking the stillness of the bedroom. Alex shifts from where he’s been dozing against Miles’s shoulder, plucking the cigarette from the Scouser’s lips after the first long drag. A moment later, Alex’s head sinks back down, pursed lips blowing smoke against Miles’s thin chest. Miles presses his nose into the crown of Alex’s head without thinking, closing his eyes to savor the scent and the texture and the warmth. 

“When are you leaving?” Miles asks, voice slicing through the heavy air like a machete.

“Friday.” Alex inhales, then says for the second time that evening, “Come with me.”

“I can’t.” He’s thinking of the thrill of raising his arms and seeing a hundred instruments rise with him. Of the visceral punch of a horn’s perfectly executed entrance, of a cutting cello melody raising the goosebumps on all exposed skin. He can’t let it go. He’s never going to get that anywhere else, he thinks, and Alex is never going to really understand it. Maybe there’s a solution to all this that saves them, but he’s caught up in his own little known universe and he knows it. 

“Not even for me?” Alex asks, voice carefully dispassionate. 

“You won’t _stay_ for me,” Miles replies, matter-of-fact.

“But I love you.”

“Not enough, evidently.”

Alex just shakes his head, like he can’t believe it.

“I love you so much,” Miles says, pulling him in closer, thinking it’ll ease the sting. 

It doesn’t. 

m m m

He’s trimming his toenails over the bin and contemplating the nature of compromise when the phone in his back pocket begins to vibrate. The caller ID displays _Helders_ in its simple, bold print, and Miles spends several long moments staring at it before sliding his thumb across the green arrow. 

“Morning, Matt,” Miles greets, aiming for neutrality. Alex has gone out to buy another suitcase and an absurd amount of sunscreen, leaving the flat in a silence broken only by Miles’s breaths and the creak of the floor. 

“What the hell is going on?”

“How do you mean?” Miles asks, maddeningly languid. He’s noticed that he’s spent the last few days cycling through three states of being - paralytic despair, rage, and numbness. Currently, he seems to be falling into the numb category. Inside, he’s fairly sure he’s only empty space. 

“Don’t fuck around, Kane. Are you going to India? Is Alex?”

Miles lets out a long breath, sensing his lack of feeling to be wearing off, at least for the time being. He’s just not sure what’s replacing it. “You already know the answer to that.”

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Matt growls out immediately. “You’re throwing it all away just ‘cause you’re both unwilling to compromise? Why are you being such fucking pricks?”

“Matt,” Miles warns, feeling his left fist begin to clench. 

“This is ridiculous.”

“I don’t need a fucking lecture from you, Helders,” Miles spits. “Do me a favour and stay out of me fucking business, will you?”

“Miles--”

“Don’t.” Miles voice cracks unexpectedly. He hangs up quickly, then sinks his head into his hands, listening to the sound of his mobile vibrating angrily on the surface in front of him. 

“Fuck off,” he rasps pointlessly at it, letting it vibrate itself off the end of the table and hit the floor with a crackling thud. He doesn’t look at it again, and leaves it lying there as he gets up to trudge toward the kitchen. 

Alex fights his way through the door a few minutes later, a suitcase and a plastic bag in tow. He glances at the phone on the floor. “That Matthew?”

Miles nods, looking to notice he’s had his hands immobile under the sink spigot for a full minute without turning on the water. Alex tosses his purchases in the general direction of the settee and approaches his neat row of plants, along the window to the left of Miles. He brushes a hand over the petal of a white orchid, the biggest of the lot, and says, “Will you take care of me plants while I’m gone?”

“Does that mean you’re coming back?” Miles grips the counter and looks back at him, but Alex doesn’t meet his eyes when he nods, fingers tracing the outline of his cactus. 

“When?” Miles persists. 

“I don’t know.”

Miles stares at him for one long moment, at the way the curve of his nose and the pout of his lips are silhouetted against the day’s the gray light. The pale expanse of his eyelids colliding with black crescent lashes. Miles shouldn’t revel in all of it the way he does. He murmurs, “You don’t sound very committed to the idea. ‘Long distance’ doesn’t work if you’re never coming back.”

“Long distance involves compromise and you don’t seem particularly committed to _that_ idea,” Alex retorts. The words burn but the expression is resigned. There’s nothing but hollowness behind it. 

Miles doesn’t reply, crossing into the living room and deflating into the armchair. He watches Alex’s back for a while, still standing in contrast against the window, two fingers out to half-heartedly assess the plants. Alex, eventually, lets his hand drop and pivots on his heel. He passes Miles on the way toward the bedroom, but stops mid-stride before he crosses into the rear of the flat. 

His eyes are bottomless when he says, “I never thought it’d be like this.”

And Miles can’t say anything to the contrary. 

m m m

From then on, their conversations wither. They cease spiralling meaninglessly around their own obstination and devolve into mundanities. It all has a touch of the surreal to it, Miles thinks, the way they still manage each other’s presence even with the distance widening between them. Miles almost prefers when they were battling it out, even if it got them nowhere, to this complete departure from what they used to be. But he does nothing to mend things, even if he tries to convince himself otherwise. 

Invariably, though, they still sleep side by side. Even if Miles can’t seem to get warm. 

During the days, as he fights to find something to keep his attention, he’s caught between wanting to eliminate Alex completely from his line of vision and wanting to fixate on and commit every detail of his being to memory. As time runs out, he leans more toward the latter, and grasps at every piece of Alex he can find: the indentations between his knuckles, the click of his left ankle first thing in the morning, the languid whistle of air escaping his lips in a sigh. 

Miles’s grip is loosening. 

Thursday night, Alex turns in early, and Miles recalls his flight time out of TF Green to be hideously early. Miles crawls into bed beside him, trying not to allow the thought that immediately enters his mind to fester. 

_This is the last time._

Alex is breathing shallow, eyes wide open and blankets pulled up to his chin. He’s nervous. Maybe it’s finally occurred to him in full that everything is going to change. 

Miles acts with a noticeable lack of conscious thought. He pulls Alex toward him, enveloping him the best he can. Alex reciprocates, taking a long breath against Miles’s collarbone as he curls into him. Miles reaches to turn off the light and then everything is still and dark as they lay entwined, seeking comfort to heal the wounds they’ve inflicted upon each other. 

Eventually, still linked, they dissolve into sleep. 

m m m

In the bedroom, Alex is throwing the final essentials into a suitcase, and in the living room, Miles is falling apart.

Everything that Alex can't take with him will go in storage tomorrow. Until then, Miles will have to live with the superfluous books and non-essential records and the heavier coats, the ones that will maintain their particular scent and those long dark hairs on the collar.

Miles, perched on the edge of the settee, has his eyes tightly shut in an attempt to regulate his breathing. Early morning light is fighting its way through his eyelids, the beginnings of an uncharacteristically sunny day. He squints harder until all he can see are imagined patterns in the swirling black behind his lids. 

He knows that if he doesn't open his eyes, he'll regret it.

His hands are tightly clasped in his lap, his teeth grinding together with every slight shift he makes. The surreality of the last few days is crumbling, and still redemption feels just out of the reach. He’s still not sure how it all ended up like this, how he’s let this happen - how have they both given up? How is he sitting here now, immobile, letting this unfold?

He doesn’t move. 

In the back, he hears the decisive sound of a zipper closing, and then Alex appears, a rolling suitcase in one hand and a worn duffle in the other. He looks paler than usual as he surveys the flat for anything he’s missed. He’s dressed in jeans, and a light cotton t-shirt, with only one thick jacket to get him through the drive to the airport. He’s leaving behind the cold. Miles quickly closes his eyes again and aims his face at the floor for good measure. The air is frigid; Miles can’t remember if he turned the heat up this morning or if that was some other day, some other time. 

Miles hears footsteps, and imagines Alex craning his neck to peek out the kitchen window. “Cab’s here,” Alex murmurs, half to himself. Miles doesn’t reply. A moment later there comes a honk, and Miles flinches blindly. 

“I have to go,” says Alex, and Miles senses the words are directed at him. Again, he does nothing to indicate he’s heard, but footsteps grow louder until the light changes and he assumes Alex has knelt in front of him. Then there’s a hand on his knee and lips pressing warm and open against his. He kisses back without thinking when fingers trace his jaw. 

“I love you,” Miles sighs. 

“I love you too.” Alex stands, blocking out all light. Miles finally opens his eyes, takes in the last full view of Alex he’s going to get. He stays sitting, appraising Alex from top to bottom, then reaches one hand out to slide down his thigh. As if to remind himself that this is all as real and tangible as he thinks it is. 

“I’m coming back,” Alex says, voice barely audible. He starts to move, gathering his things, keeping himself busy so that Miles can’t see his eyes. 

“I’ll wait,” replies Miles. He can’t tell who’s lying, but surely they can’t both be telling the truth. 

Alex is at the door now, loaded down by baggage in every sense of the word. With one hand on the knob, he turns his head, and though Miles can feel the eyes on him, he doesn’t look up. 

There’s the sound of shuffling, then the door closes and footsteps thump down the stairs. A few moments later there’s the sound of a car boot slamming shut and the revving of an engine as the cab pulls into traffic. It’s all over in a matter of seconds, and then Miles is looking up to an empty apartment. 

In the bedroom, the closet doors have been left open, as they should be. Miles ignores the clothes and shoes and tchotchkes that pour out haphazardly, searching for the wooden box he’s been keeping on a top shelf for years. Finding it, he slides to the floor and cracks the lid. Ragged bits of paper spill over the edges - tissues and sticky notes and receipts. Soon, he’s surrounded by them. He’s alone with the words. A magazine shred at his feet catches his eye.

_I live for you like rosin lives for a bow._

He almost laughs, but doesn’t. Silence closes in again, trying to fill the new, raw void. 

He’s alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I'm a heartless bitch.  
> I am sorry, though. There is a possibility of a sequel in my mind, if it's any consolation. I also have another AU (the MI5 one I haven't been able to shut up about on Tumblr) that will be ready to post in the next month or so.  
> This story was difficult to write in some ways, but overall it came naturally. Even if the setting and the content were technically foreign to me, the interactions between Alex and Miles came with relative ease (hopefully it came out at least somewhat realistic). And Alex's love notes were fun, too, but I definitely had to work for them. Because of that, it's been kind of a strange trip. I'm interested to hear what you guys think about it. 
> 
> Also, I have some recommended listening, if anyone's interested. Some of these were mentioned in the story, others just seem to apply. Here's a list, and I'll post some links on my blog:
> 
>  _Hungarian Dance No.1_ \- Brahms  
>  C Major Quintet (or _Procession of the Military Night Watch in Madrid_ ) - Boccherini  
> Finale of _American Quartet No.12_ \- Dvorák  
>  First Movement of _Death and the Maiden_ \- Schubert  
>  _Introduction et Rondo Capriccioso_ \- Saint-Saens  
>  _The Great Gate of Kiev_ \- Mussorgsky  
>  _The Beatitudes_ \- Kronos Quartet (covering Martynov)
> 
> They're all incredibly beautiful and very much worth your time. 
> 
> So, to finish off, I'm sorry for any emotional trauma I've caused. Sometimes you just have to go a different route, though. Hopefully you don't all hate me now xD  
> And, of course, thank you so much for reading! Much love <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr now! lafayette1777.tumblr.com


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